Cut and Squeeze

I would fill my pack full
of oranges, sling it over my shoulder,
and make haste to her room
where she’d tell me again
that the food is dreadful,
and so I’d cut and squeeze,
and squeeze,
and pour,
and a moment of her smile
would appear as she drank
her “sips of sunshine,”
and the color would return to her face
as we squeezed
the hours
into minutes,
into seconds.