Sweet

My habit in December is to peel an orange as I walk—bits of peel in my pockets— pants that smell of Florida—and sometimes approach a car at an intersection— tap on the window—interrupt the driver’s rapture of watching for the green light of release—I’m sworn at by most—flipped-off—or ignored with the same passion I’m ignored by God— but she rolled down her window when I made the motion of a crank with my hand—took the half I offered— the sweetness of a warmer sky— and ate the slices in front of me—with me— as I my equal measure devoured—then left our common life together—the only moment of our eternal bond—the link that will play out as a long string between us, no matter what pleasure is advanced by other days—we looked at each other and ate bits of a world making the most of the sun—of the light that is blowing away into nothingness— the moment so small, so precise, it was easy to love everything we knew of each other—I had a gift and she had a desire to accept that gift—we were whole— we were cured—had advanced the cause of being ever so slightly along the path it wanders with us, little bits of dust caught in its hair.