Death and Oranges

Death smells like oranges, I guess

If I had to pinpoint a time when

I was close with death

It'd smell like the ripe sunkist

Rind of summer oranges sitting

In the middle of my

Not-enough-windows

How-can-it-be-so-cold

Bottom-of-the-hill

House.

It'd smell like the winter ones, too

The onces that are usually dry

As a bone

That burst in puffs of orange-flavored

Air, like a knock-off soda.

The immediate-regret oranges

The I-saw-it-coming,

I-don't-know-what-I-did-but-I-don't-like-it

Oranges.

But, every once in a while, you get that

Juicy, summeresque orange that

Restores your trust in those

Good-for-nothing winter oranges.

I don't eat oranges anymore.