one day I'll write a poem about you, 
Karolyn,
   sitting there in the corner sucking your orange
every morning at 9:13.

one day I'll say the soft light is streaming 
Karolyn,
   through the white blinds of the public school 
room 210, Breysse.

AP English
where the soft 9:17 light slips through the shade
on you,      Karolyn
sucking your orange.

while the light bounces off 
    the splattered juices and the spittle
the orangepeels
and your hair, 
Karolyn

there is a poetic squalor
  in your unknowing blissful youth
there is a graceful disorder
    in your splatter, Karolyn. 
a beautiful peaceful chaos
in your sucking oranges, 

one I thought only the toddlers knew. 

the peels you drop on the floor
the peels you rip up into pieces on the schoolroom table, 
the succulent portions you slurp and chew at, 
the peels you dump into your apron-shirt and 
carry as he speaks (9:23)
across the room and to the can.

you return in your wetness, 
Karolyn,   
   to smile at me; 
content.

copyright 1997 Rachael Lee