I notice that, of all possible foodstuffs, a lemon has fallen out of the trash bag
of the sleeping homeless man in the corner of the subway car.
Funny thing to carry around if you’re homeless, I think. But later, after lunch,
when I suddenly want to squeeze lemon into whiskey (but can’t decide whether or not that would
need heating or give me heartburn), it seems like a very sensible thing to do.
If I had to fit all of my possessions and nourishment into one
big black garbage bag, I would certainly stow some thick-skinned lemons.
They are worth their weight in bitter light.