You don a bitter orange peel cloak.
Tangy lemon tingles tart on my tongue.
I scoop the grapefruit quarter sans sugar
And smart at the startling sour.
Acerbic is what you’re offering.
No fruit-shaped confections ladled with fructose
Nor strawberries smothered in unctuous chocolate.
I scour the bland baskets with scorn
While dreaming of syrup-dripped candy.
Bittersweet is what you’re offering.
Sneakin’ down the street for satisfaction.
Praying to Virgin Mary for my sins.
I scoop the saccharine confections.
Savoring that sickeningly sweet thrill.
Anything, but what you’re offering.
And I wait for judgment’s final wrath.
- Theresa Milstein