I’m supposed to be in bed right now;
like most nights, I can’t sleep,
so instead I’ve been
throwing tangerines at people
with my mind.
That is not a metaphor;
I acquire the power of telekinesis
somehow when I’m sleepy,
but only when no one is watching:
like the way childhood toys come to life
in the hands of blind children.
So to be one-with-my-superpowers,
I sneak off to the fridge
(because it’s not often that people will
find me on their way to a midnight snack),
and practice with the contents of the crisper drawer.
Today it’s lime-sour mind control,
for I’m on a mission to keep those
who receive my launched fruit missile gifts
free from illness.
Tonight I’m a sour-patch doctor,
trying to cure disease
one tangerine at a time.
There is so much refined Vitamin C
in the thrown pieces of citrus;
I’m beginning to wonder whether
they can keep Ebola from becoming contagious.
With my amazing brain abilities,
I am invincible until the wee hours
when the patients in my hospital home
awake from their dreamworld.
They ask me about my evening
and I ask back if they feel better.
Many say they are bruised and sticky with juice
but that only tells me the treatment is working.
The cooking staff, on the other hand, are frantic
claiming that a patient raided the kitchen last night
and all the fruit has gone bad.
I smile sadly at their naiveté
and fall in line to take my morning medication.
ENDNOTE: The next poem I publish will mark the 100th piece on this site.
What do you think I should do to celebrate?