Old Oranges


I was waiting on the carpet man to come and measure and did this draft of a new poem. It's sort of funny but true. I drink about three oranges every other day for breakfast but have too many. So I will now drink them every night with some vodka(screw drivers) for my nightly toddy. You know, the one that helps you sleep(better than NyQuil Shooters) It's just a draft and not the finished product. Greg

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Valencia, a place upon the Spanish Main

But not a place, but a fruit by that name

Each Christmas, a tree adorned by its color

Christmas orbs dangling in splendant furor

This of which I speak is persimmon orange

As is the fruit, I speak of its name and its color

The fruit was distributed as was need

At the behest of one’s caring’s creed

The fruits picked in abundance abound

The fruit too high now litters the ground

The tree is hardy but gnarled and old

As am I if I should be so poetically bold

On my porch I have these old oranges

Discolored, their rinds dried and hard

But their nectar as sweet as citrus wine

Their skins are agedly as dark as mine

Rusty rashes and freckled freckles dot

Blotchy too as if adorned by age spots

What is this old man too do?

As I contemplate, ponder and stew

Rheumatic joints and reflections akin

As these old oranges in the juicer spin

For breakfast there is ample enough

An epiphany! A screw driver I huff

A gallon of vodka will do


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