The Orange

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My stomach aches; my belly rumbles;
my foot, on pavement, nearly stumbles;
my hand, still shaking, cruelly fumbles;
the orange, my meal, loudly tumbles
and calls attention my way.

The merchant yells; the watchers look;
the guard, nearby, puts down his book;
“The thief!”, I hear, “Find what he took!”
My orange, my meal, must be forsook
lest I call attention my way.

My tired legs pump; my sore feet ache;
my home, close hidden, in which I quake;
my hands, now empty, truly shake:
one orange, my meal, enough to make
them call attention my way?

The market closes; the nighttime nears;
the guard, in stealth, near to me veers;
“Take it”, he whispers, and then appears
the orange, my meal, with no fears
of calling attention my way.