I’ve never been much of a navel gazer,
Finding that the color of the orange doesn’t lie
And truth is not always the friend I am looking for.
Now there’s depth in that if not meaning.
I tend to finish my fruit before the epiphany occurs.
Perhaps the sensation of the cold grape
Pop, Pop, Popping as my teeth pierce its skin
Is more captivating than the infinity held within
Its seeds. But the banana, ah that is a different story.
My misplaced sense of control over the moment
Blossoms as its pale yellowness yields to my bite.
So I reach for an apple and the cracking crunch
Brings me back to contemplating the orange.