Tropicana

When I was young
There was always orange juice in the fridge.
I'd wake up, pad downstairs in feety pajamas,
Struggle with the door and
In the cool, blue light that smelled vaguely of plastic and sauce and freon,
Stare at the carton with the big orange on it.

I didn't know where Tropicana was, but it seemed like a nice place,
Especially in the morning when anything less nice
From the day before felt more distant
Bathing in the cold breeze that blew my mussed, uneven hair
Pushed by the fit-and-start whirring of the
Struggling General Electric motor.

I think I was too short to reach it then,
So my mom would pull it down, plunk me
At the brown table with the grooves that would
Accommodate "leaves" when people came over
(I always thought of her shoving trees into it)
But now only accommodated the gray, sterilized lines of
Leftover, compressed food my brother and I created
When we spilled things at meals past.

I'd dig into the grooves with a butter knife,
Making small gray dusty mountains on the sides,
And my mom put the glass in front of me
And the acrid, too-sweet sip of concentrated juice
Launched me out of the last stubborn cobwebs of sleep
And into my clothes she picked out for me,
Into my backpack,
And into school where a lot of kids made that juice
Hit the back of my throat when they threw their kid words at me.

These days juice makes my heart race
Because there's too much sugar in it
And I only drink coffee, black, anyway
And I don't even open the fridge in the mornings
But sometimes I do, hoping the carton will be there
With its bright orange fruit on the front
Promising to start my day right
And implying, in my mind anyway,
That it will keep that promise through the rest of my life.