Grocery Store 3 a.m. | Kit Rohrbach
Worst of all
is the sadness of fruit
tumbled in a cardboard bin
remembering Cézanne’s
important apples
on a sunlit blue table
and Gauguin’s
sun-browned women,
their skin smelling of oranges.
The scent of oranges fades
in overhead fluorescence
like years and blue sailboats
on sun-bright water.
Oranges in my kitchen
sliced in half
fed to a juicer,
medieval punishment
for beauty or witchcraft,
as the lever ratchets down
to press sun-flavored juice
from pulp and skin.
The empty rind
fits exactly in my hand.
About the Author:
Kit Rohrbach lives, writes, and herds cats in Southeastern Minnesota.