The orange looks lonely
sitting in a white bowl.
So I begin to write it a letter.
I tell it of my troubles, what I look
like, how there is a hole
burning inside me that I think
the orange could fill.
I say I will make you a Caesar
with a crown of leaves
and a chariot with wheels
that will never stop spinning.
I am getting carried away.
I tell the orange I know oranges
are famous: countless still life
paintings, the second Godfather,
an O’Hara poem. How some
oranges will be stuck with needles
by nurses who are practicing
giving shots to the old and infirm.
I pick it up and roll it over my thigh.
The orange’s perfume fills my nostrils.
I think I am getting somewhere.
I put it back in the bowl
and spin it like a bright globe.
I turn out the lights. The orange
says nothing. I lie my head down
on the table. Tomorrow we will
set sail for a wild and savage country.
