Frank Lloyd Wright

The Orange

Not like that,

he wails.

I want it like that instead.

No, that isn’t what it looks like.

No, I want it to look,

like it looks in my head.

He is only Five,

thinking he is Frank Lloyd Wright.

She treats her heart,

like she does her

Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

She drops in on hard surfaces,

introduces it to the business end of hammers,

peels of the expensive covering,

and gives it away piece by piece.