By where we put out the trash
there is a fragrant orange tree.
On Monday mornings the street
smells of fresh fruit and rotted fruit
and isn’t that as good a metaphor
of life as one could devise?
Then a truck comes by—I’ve never
seen the driver, there must be a driver—
to take away the weeks’ discarded poems,
and I stand on the front lawn, waving
at the machine, wondering what it smells
like where all the poetry decomposes.
After, I return to the quiet of my house
where secrets gather like dust too fine
to sweep up. I shouldn’t say so out loud,
but I want you. Next Monday, I’ll take this
desire to the curb, hide behind the oranges to see
who comes for it. I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s
you or not you. Suck rainwater off a rind, perhaps,
or make juice of my shame—drink it down cold.