In my hand, I hold an orange,
large, dimpled, a thick skin
that peels with little effort.
I have peeled these many times,
preferring them to the thin-skinned kind
that rip the inner flesh
and leak the juice.
I am wrapped in my sweater,
cold, in a house
that never seems warm to my thin skin.
In a room two rooms away
I hear the laughter of my sons
who are not here
as I make a salad of fresh fruit.
I am an old man in a cold house
peeling bright and thick-skinned oranges
for two sons who laugh
a room or two away.