Oranges

Oranges

The boys at work laughed when I told them
how I tasted the essence of orange on your tongue
last night as we kissed and yearned to peel back
your cover and bury my face in the citrus scent
to quench my thirst.

At lunch,
Bob Ratvy shined a quarter section of nectarine
from his mouth, sucking and slobbering as he wrapped
his hairy arms around me. Jimmy Smith called me
a fruitcake and stroked the banana he held at his crotch
until it squirted onto the floor in a mashed pulp.

After lunch, a sweet ambrosia blew off Heather's
creamy skin as she lingered by the fan, glistening
like a fresh-cut peach in July.

But I desire oranges
and can't wait to get home.