Citrus Season

This time last year I was calling off
work because I couldn't get out of bed.

The year before I was pounding back
painkillers while my ribs gradually fused back together.

I'm still young enough
that the majority of my Februarys were staged in my parent's house—

coats and sweaters like garlic skins
flaking off as we step over the threshold.

This year
the radiators tap dance all night long.

We bask in the open fridge in our underwear.
This year we live next to a strip club and a dentist.

We toss orange peels out the window, laughing,
aiming for the open alleyway dumpster.

We hide from cold drunk strangers down below
baffled at the sunshine fragrance of this winter's last snow.