Listen & Be Heard Weekly Archives

The old man across from me on the train peels
an orange. He carefully pulls off the skin
that reluctantly leaves behind a few white veins.
Then, he breaks a wedge and eats it with relish,
feeding his hunger the way solitude feeds his anger.

You can tell he is weary of being alone, weary
of loving those who did not love him, and weary
of letting himself be used unto ash. Like that spit
of a tree struggling to grow in the Temple’s
shadow, the light is higher than he can reach.

Moses, stretch out your hand over the people.
They, too, are weary. Regard the fire in their hearts.
It is written the Lord was pleased with the holocaust
of incense rising to heaven. From where I sit
the pleasant aroma of an orange fills the air.

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