Creating space for poetry and conversation
Moral Reasoning
One day a lone orange
appeared in the break room fridge,
top shelf, right side.
Each time the door opened
it greeted me: a perfect globe—
pristine, sunrise-skinned, luscious.
I never touched it; it wasn’t mine.
But every day I yearned to finger
its firm, supple leather, to feel
its heft heavy in my palm, to score
and peel back perfect petals,
to savor its fragrant, tangy nectar.
Day after day no one claimed it.
My desire went unsated. I watched
that orange lose freshness, forsaken,
desiccating by degrees, shriveling—
a waste, its purpose unfulfilled.
I was the one who finally tossed it.
To this day I still wonder:
if one tastes forbidden fruit,
does its sweet juice sear the tongue?
Ibbetson Street #54
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