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THE ORANGE

She sat
Prolonging the taste of that part of the orange sweetest of all
That inverted stalk

The protraction quantified
By the cuttings of sections
Each with its sliver of seed vessel

The display reminding her of the provinces of her own life
She found herself in that third age
Accordingly referred to by those in the business of denomination, enumeration

She pondered
Had she smartly experienced pure penetrations
In each of her respective stages
Or had all the pleasantries been ingested in the middle

Had she consumed the luscious; the fresh; the bouquet too early
Leaving nothing but the acrid
For this
The next to the last in time's progression.

Go on to You Mean To Give Me Nothing



from The Third Age in Paris
by Arleen T. McCormack

on Serendip
Write to Arleen T. McCormack

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