The Gods in Oranges

Continued to be soggy emotionally today
even though two people I didn’t know smiled at me,
one because I couldn’t open a bag of dried mango,
the other because I stepped aside
as if I was holding the door for her
even though it was an automatic door.
The mangoes, tiny slivers, were soft
and powerful as baby rattlesnakes.
A branch had blown into my parking spot
by the time I got home like a friendly arm
over a shoulder so I sat in the car
listening to the rain finding its melody,
not wanting to send an angry text message
back to that prick ex-friend of mine who keeps
wanting to prove his life is more worthwhile than mine.
You’re singing every time you talk to someone,
I remind myself again and again, don’t forget you’re singing.
Even in the peel of an orange, there’s probably a god.
Energy is stored in there and then released
once the bonds are broken, once the juice runs
down your chin, everything
(even the gods in oranges)
gets blown apart in the end,
but still you’ve got to keep singing,
keep singing to those damn pricks
otherwise what the hell are we here for?