The Wasteful One The fruit is rotting in the bowl.
The apple smells too sweet,
soft spot dented brown and mealy.
Fruit flies grow too big over here.
That jaunty yellow summer squash I bought because it looked like a UFO
now turning in on itself,
now mottled sick brown and white.
I keep buying cut flowers
forgetting they’re already dead.
Ghosts in a glass,
memories of fields fading.
Everything I touch today
turns to brown
and rots away.
I want it all.
I hunt and gather,