Bright Orange Sun By Trish Saunders

It rained all day long, the date of that last eclipse  

and I didn’t bother to get dressed all day, until

the sky turned dark and a faint train whistle 

reminded me how years slip away from us. 

Five, ten, fifteen…

the years disappear in pitiless rain 

while the drudgery of dishes, laundry,

ironing, 401k’s and spreadsheets

eats away at our existence. 

Meanwhile in Naples, a gnarled orange tree

grows next to the tracks leading to Pompeii. 

Meanwhile, an ancient orange grove. Mean-

while, this amontillado in my glass, my good

friend who says, ‘I understand. ‘

For John Patrick Robbins

Trish Saunders lives in Seattle, formerly Honolulu, formerly Snohomish, a small town on a big river in Washington state. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Off The Coast, The Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen, Open Arts, and the late, lamented Fat Damsel Press.