I first walked past the apple core

during a dreary morning way to work. 

The core of a bright fuji apple

looking artificial 

on the edge of a dull concrete bridge 

scattered with trash. 

Days passed

the core slowly wilting. 

A body without a burial

amidst littered humanity.

regardless of 

brittle winter new england weather 

rolling over 

that dull concrete bridge, 

the apple stayed.

“Who ate the apple?”

“Why did they leave it there?”

I wondered every morning.

We grew a passive intimacy, 

like strangers who share a bus route.

Familiar only in looks, fleshy stenches, and wrinkled skin.