I’m sorry if
in the morning,
you wake before I do,
and see the mess
that I left
in the kitchen last night.
While we slept,
head in neck,
hand on hip, I dreamt
that I boarded
a ship to sail
over the moon.
It was blue or,
had been once,
with sails the shade of a ripe persimmon.
It sat so low
that sometimes in
the dense dawn clouds we’d sink
and see the sun,
reflected under
them, onto us.
And then you were there,
and the sun’s early morning glory
could not compare to yours.
But just as we tipped
to drain the clouds
and sail finally from earth
I grew pale,
remembering
the great folly of those who’d come before.
I ran below
to confirm my fear
and found it to be true:
not a fresh citrus in sight!
not an orange,
nor lemon, nor lime.
In my fright
I awoke
with a craving for tangerines,
so I’m sorry if
in the morning
you awake before I do
and find the pulp
and the peels and seeds
I left in the sink.
