Placing an orange in hand,
examining it for imperfections,
and of course there are always some,
miniscule perhaps, yet nonetheless edible;
you peel it with great salivation.
And, gripping the orange in hand,
you break grain, and digging
as if you were searching for China,
or the grave of a treacherous soul,
who axed your cherished Mandarin Tree;
you exhume his citrus scent corpse.
deep beneath Boca's Orange Groves-
where my theory breathes hard,
and my conscience is pure and clean-
to actions betook.
Squeezing the orange softly,
watching the sections split one by one,
imbibing in the tartly sweet citrus,
like the purest sugar, the burst of quench
soothing your swollen uvula,
except for the pulp, as nothing is perfect.
Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
MMXVI All rights reserved
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