lamenting a runaway orange

 

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I see that bloody fruit:
an orange rolling away fro me
along a sprawling table
I reach to stop it from going further
but always it is just out of reach.
It rolls against the wood and glass,
mocking in its orangey ways
until it finds the table edge
and leaps into the nothing below.
fuck you orange.
Instead of looking for where
the citrus landed
I return to my chair at the table head
and stare at where it fell.
how could I let it get away from me
always beyond my frantic digits
leaning, grappling, flailing
over the space where it was?
how is it any different from the words
stuck in the finger ends
unwilling to leap
to the keyboard, or screen
not even the pen scratching
against wrinkled paper
still drying
while I stare?
~

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