tangerine

she wore an orange silk camisole underneath her cotton blouse

making every breeze more interesting to those who stood over her

while she rode the bus from fayette to montford

and it had never dawned on her that anyone would even desire a peek

much less stare with bold eye or quick glance;

and the daisy dukes revealed the orange lace tap pants underneath.

she did it all so effortlessly that she sometimes forgot to be coy

and men would whistle and yell out to her-

but she’d never pause to acknowledge the attention-

walking in her sheer cotton blouse and daisy dukes

she felt like a girl again

and didn’t want to think about the water bill she had

left on the dresser

or the dead beat dad who came by once in a while-

here and now

she was independent and spontaneous-

unrestrained and immune to the world around her-

ripe like a tangerine.

One thought on “tangerine

  1. This is great, you paint a solid picture of this woman.

    To me, this moment in the poem is what startles me (in a wonderful way):
    “and didn’t want to think about the water bill she had / left on the dresser / or the dead beat dad who came by once in a while-”
    It is such an emotionally compelling turn in the poem. Brava!

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