God is Patient

He rides wisps into the shimmering light,
Grocery shopping, walking past the homes,
Holding the fruits—
Bruised, damaged,
The one in the lemon meringue house wheelchair bound,
Waiting til night begins to raise its curtain until—
Wait, a young, supple, sun kissed tangerine,
A boy, unpicked, unhandled, nurtured,
Luscious and yet, divine in his innocence.
He was the one, there was no other,
And without a second thought, picked he was,
More noise made by the slowly shutting window pane than
The panicked, low whimpering of a
Tangerine slowly pulled into the haze of nights past.

Slowly, slowly picked,
Peeled back, sliced into small but even segments,
Juice, seeds tossed as bale in the trash,
Left on the cutting board, an afternoon delight.
No one blinks twice at a four dollar purchase made
In the traffic of the super market shuffle,
And no one cares to miss a tangerine
Picked for another’s solace, picked only for his pleasure,
In the middle of the night.