The crusty brown husk bore scant resemblance
To the peel that had curled sweetly and fragrantly as she stripped it
From the squirting orange.
When?
Friday night? Saturday?
It coiled dry and stiff beside the ashtray that held the
Remains of two cigarettes she’d smoked that same night.
One, only half burned and crushed, bore a lipstick smudge.
So it had to have been Saturday.
She never felt being alone as when life’s detritus piled around her
And became permanent monuments.
Toenail clippings on the bed side table or the undershirt,
Once sweaty from yard work,
Hanging stiffly on the bathroom door.
For what?
A week? Two?
She’d get to it. All of it.
Eventually.
Hot Bottoms 