Disillusioned

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Sometimes the absurdity
Of a man peeling an orange perfectly and wedging a lump of pink-red salt
In the groove between the fleshy quarters

Brings to mind the hollow soulless drain
Of traveling in a crowded train
Close to a midnight that seems to have the witchery scrubbed off
So the stars are pallid
And the moon is an orb with dried up tears

And people, listless and worn, look out their windows
With mouths partially open
No song in the rhythm of a pulsating train
No wanting or hopin’

Just as well…
Because I caught myself smiling
At the deft hands peeling the orange
And feeling quite nice
But it wasn’t really a twinkle in the Universe
It was business
And it came at a price.

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