Les Citrus, Pt. II
#22 of Poetry c.2019
The continuing, second-part poetical story of a hypothetical orange farmer.
Les Citrus (II)
Here I am for another day,
a chance for just a chance;
everyone has gone to pray,
but I'm stuck in a trance.
I'm never the morning kind,
not like they need me to be;
being trapped in my mad mind,
always looking down just to see.
I like to work with my hands,
it's something they all admire;
they love my bright red hairbands,
which I get from my bed post spire.
They cling to the wood so tight,
they've left it a bad impression;
just like all my dreams at night,
and my semi-weekly therapy session.
She says I should try to think
of something else besides home;
I am just a thing on the brink,
living where light has not shone.
The scents of my bright deeds
are all that keeps me on par;
my job is just to plant seeds,
and get the fuck out to my car.