Orange

The last for picking fruit inside the bowl,

I picked the last and held it in my hands.

his musty coat with tiny holes was thin.

I prodded softly—ascertaining health.

I stabbed him listening for flesh to squish

like moldy sponge— an average orange

that once was sweet, but now just rotted fast;

too late to save since time had settled down  

and planted nauseous mint for his insides

that burst like braille through galactic old skin

and smelled like devastated Sunday breath.

“the sewer fruit,” I sneered and opened wide.