What did we, gone to seed, do to sour 

   those dozen bad apples set to spoil 

   the whole bunch, rank fruits without stone that treat

   reproduction like consumption alone?

The sallow meats, bread flocked with sentient moss, 

ripe berries reek fleeced via impassioned 

imposture leave me the plain brown measure 

of my loss: Whole potlucks down the drain like

toothpaste caps or mindlessly knocked into 

the trash and swallowed by the garbage truck.

Crimped wants misfeed while these, my shriveled nuts,

monuments to all that a grown-up male

can willingly forget, are shooting weeds,

leveled once they exceed the walkway’s ruts.