Clementine

Half past twelve, the office thins
Somebody's microwave begins
I dig one from my canvas sack
A little sun packed in the black
My thumbnail breaks the dimpled peel
The mist goes up, and time goes still
One breath, and thirty years unwind
A kitchen counter comes to mind

Wax paper folded neat and square
A thermos and a folding chair
A name in marker on the lid
The careful things somebody did
I never clocked the morning cost
The hour they rose, the sleep they lost

Half a life, a thousand miles
All the years I moved away
It still tastes the same

The segments split like little moons
I eat them slow across the noon
The meeting pings, I let it ping
Some minutes outrank everything
The spiral peel beside the screen
Sits curled the way it's always been

Tomorrow, six, before the sun
I'll fold wax paper for someone
A name in marker, done with care
A little sun tucked under there
They'll never clock the morning cost
No hour given here is lost

Half a life, a thousand miles
All the years I moved away
Someone loved me every day
It still tastes the same

The mist is fading off my hands
The clock resumes its small demands
Every peel
Every year
Thank you for every day

Half a life, a thousand miles
All the years I moved away
Someone loved me every day
And now it's mine to give away
It still tastes the same

The afternoon can have me now
I go back sweeter anyhow
One more sun inside my coat
For the ride home