Bring an Orange (3)

Standard

Some day, I am going to throw a party
for oranges.
People will come

with bags of oranges
clementines
tangerines and mandarins.

I will paint the walls
in streaks of watery blood orange;
red, purple,
with texture like pulp.

We will drink Florida’s Natural
and Minute Maid
and we will pull the orange flesh
out from the skin

which we will make into piles
before composting. When we are full
we will puncture the leftover whole oranges
with cloves
until our hair smells like Christmas

and then we will learn to play
pinochle with a burnt orange deck.
On the backs of the cards
we will paint pictures
of elephants
and beautiful wrinkled hands.

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One response »

  1. Why I Am Not a Painter

    I am not a painter, I am a poet.
    Why? I think I would rather be
    a painter, but I am not. Well,

    for instance, Mike Goldberg
    is starting a painting. I drop in.
    “Sit down and have a drink” he
    says. I drink; we drink. I look
    up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
    “Yes, it needed something there.”
    “Oh.” I go and the days go by
    and I drop in again. The painting
    is going on, and I go, and the days
    go by. I drop in. The painting is
    finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
    All that’s left is just
    letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

    But me? One day I am thinking of
    a color: orange. I write a line
    about orange. Pretty soon it is a
    whole page of words, not lines.
    Then another page. There should be
    so much more, not of orange, of
    words, of how terrible orange is
    and life. Days go by. It is even in
    prose, I am a real poet. My poem
    is finished and I haven’t mentioned
    orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
    it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
    I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

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