Oranges in Winter

There’s no value in any good fortune
Unless it’s well celebrated, so here

You sit by the scenic window, watching
The freezing rain mixed with wet snow, the cliffs

In white lace and scarved in fog, while you peel
Your grocery-store oranges, a gift

From a friend. Citrus is a privilege.
A warm room in winter’s a privilege.

Your body may be consumed with cancer
And the wounds of trying to kill cancer.

The rental in which you actually live
May be afflicted with rot and black mold,

And the bank account from which you pay rent
May have been emptied by rental payments,

But for today, the landlord is paying
For you to stay in a nice motel room,

While your rental is being ripped apart
To tear out the rot that wasn’t your fault,

Lucky you, and you have these oranges
Brought by a friend, which would nearly have been

Miracles on a February day
On a farm in northwest Massachusetts

In the middle of the Great Depression,
As your half-orphaned mother would have said.