Abbas brings me an orange from the grove,
Peels it and peppers it,
Swallows a piece and gives me another.
I flinch at the bitter and raw,
Spit out the pulp.
“I’m out for the pruning,” he says,
Sweeps up the peel in his pocket.
“You spend too much time alone.”
“See if a letter has come,” I ask,
As I ask every morning,
My futile and vain prayer for the day.
He nods his head delicately,
Touches my arm
With his veined, mottled hand.
“Orange pudding I’ll make later this week.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”