The oranges on the bar at Folies-Bergère
Of all that people have said aboutThe bar at Folies-Bergère,
no one ever mentions the oranges.
Firstly how they look more like tangerines,
satsumas, or clementines but not oranges.
Whichever petite citrus was painted is up to you
but no one ever mentions how they fall
out of the painting and into your eye
or how you can smell them, touch the dust
on the stalks, feel the wax of the skin
between your thumb and forefingers.
Most say the girl looks tired or bored,
or sad, that’s the first thing you would.
The second is how it took you a second
to realise you were looking at a mirror.
Then the champagne, the wine, the ale,
maybe after, the reflection of the clientele,
The formality of the dresses, the suits, the ties.
How you have transported back in time
in your AirJordans and pods, standing out
like a flamingo in a sea of emperor penguins
and only then do you, very quietly,
discreetly, to yourself remark:
Out of everything that was and now is,
the oranges haven’t changed one bit.
William Atkins is a poet and musician currently based in Hastings, UK. He has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic and Watershed Review and has toured the UK with his work. Twitter: @WJMAtkins1205, IG: @snark_e
Art: Bar Night, a visual poem by Robert Frede Kenter (c) 2025.
IceFloe Press 