She was my first squeeze,
the taste of fresh dripping from her pulp,
with pits strained through an old time juicer,
zest of orange permeating the breeze.
Over the years things went awry,
tastebuds gravitated to sour
of grapefruit and limes.
Last time I saw her, she sat
disconsolate in a bin
at my neighborhood grocery store
bemoaning our annulment.
In a family heirloom rocking chair,
I sit on the porch in my waning years,
sipping from a frosty antique glass of lemonade,
beads of sweat tickling its sides.
I think of the old days,
my first squeeze,
wondering about her fate,
did she find a new lover,
or was her life spoiled
by my change in taste.