Sandwiches and Orange Juice

by Jason Nelson

Below one level is another. And below this lower level is a small metal box.

Surrounded by thieves, the small metal box is locked. There is a key

somewhere hidden by men and women with good paying jobs and dominant impressions

of the way things work. Below the box and those angry thieves is a jealous sea.

Beneath this large watery body is the hour before two a.m. Crouched with

sandwiches and orange juice, I’m in the metal box looking through the air holes

by my feet. And through those holes, I listen to the desperate thieves scratch

and watch the sea tie its shoes and ride its ten-speed home.

Three of ten water forms

Golden Delicious apples know this isn’t true. They find themselves caught in an

awkward pose, a gaudy picture painted between two quarreling parties. One

fiddles unendingly with their coat, trying to convince the threads and buttons

and more buttons that fruit needs warmth. And the other jumps from conclusion to

conclusion as if answers were small boats static on a placid stream. The

apples, so metallic and tasty, heft this great pressure, this need for

fightingly resolve, with surprising ease. They understand that beyond the

hydroelectric dam to the north, there are pies waiting and muffins waiting and

breakfast cereals waiting for their fruity flavoring. And despite the gorgeous

advances in artificial taste, and despite their shiny wax residue, apples still

command a multitude of vitamins. Besides, all conflicts need cellular health,

and vitamins know the truth hidden between grocery store isles, between what is

frozen and what isn’t nearly as cold.