We peel oranges
Together-
Sunday morning
Draping on our shoulders,
Hunched over
Like two old criminals
Doling out our loot.
The breakfast table
Over fifty-
But sturdy still.
We count our pills
For the ills of age-
Eat our oranges
As a sort of wage
Against the years
We’ve gathered here.
The breakfast table
Over fifty-
But sturdy still.
A bit of breath
In each little bite
Of orange light-
Slices of love
On wrinkled hands
Defy the chills.
And the breakfast table
Is sturdy. . . still.
All poetry on this website (c) Anastasia Clark. All rights reserved.