Room in New York, Edward Hopper, 1932

Trucked In

Winters are when most
get discontented—tender faces struck
by wind blown past covered ears, blocking
sensational atrophy. Pocked
or pocketed, snow falls apart.

In times like these, a burst of orange
helps. Literally, oranges stacked
like a witch’s teat
on our counter, stronger even
than the broken perfume bottle
I find upon coming home late at night, lingering
longer than the glass bits I fail to clean.

The universe tends towards entropy, and so
do our plans on Thursday night, a simple
recipe fizzling into a Friday watching
The Apartment in your apartment. I laugh
at the perfect ending but still feel
disordered,

ordering Indian by bike pedal through blizzard.
How does the food get here, you ask, as we
stake forks into rice, chickpeas, onion,
garlic, peppers, tomatoes, ginger, cilantro, and
a variety of spices.

I look for an answer, and see the oranges.
I see a moment, and it freezes, ordered, in front of me
until I move toward it—and then it brightly pops.

They bring those in by truck.

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