Momentum

by The A-Sides


An Afternoon
by Benjamin Weinhold

This, no that one. Squeeze. Yes, this orange
Looks good. See, I've been dreaming
Lately of citrus sweet breakfast drinks.
These pulpy juices would go well with my
Diced potato side and tofu scramble with chives that I cooked
This morning. Coffee and tea can squeeze

Into many morning cups, but when you squeeze
And flex an arm or two while you wring an orange
Or a lemon well, the flavor is earned. I also believe cooked
Coffee beans that are roasted and soaked in a dreamy
Steam bath yield a tasty brew. I love my
Too-early morning and my quiet afternoon caffeine drinks

Dearly, just as my dad once did. Perhaps now he drinks
More tea than coffee. I remember how he used to squeeze
The French Press down. With closed eyes my
Mouth cursed that first time I brought our old orange
And white mug to my sleepy tongue. It was dreaming
Until the bitter burn cooked

My tongue awake. That first sip cooked
How coffee is supposed to taste into the "drinks"
Portion of my brain. I must be daydreaming
Because I have lost the orange
I was holding in my hand. I squeeze
The air. Yes, the fruit I was squeezing in my

Hand and the other shoppers can see that my
Basket is empty. I price and cook
Foods in my head as I walk back to the orange
Monet painting, past the energy drinks.
My fingers want reality, not impressionism, they squeeze
Another orange. My fingers forget dreams

When the acid spray coats them. They do not dream
Now, but tonight they might season my
Own. I could be a migrant worker in Brazil squeezing
Bags full of heavy color, my neck cooked
In the sight of a drunk sun. What drinks
Would a golden star, would that bright orange

Sun drink, even in a vivid Gauguin colored dream?
I fill my bag carefully and once outside I squeeze
Through many orange glaring girls, all overcooked.