I first walked past the apple core
during a dreary morning way to work.
The core of a bright fuji apple
on the edge of a dull concrete bridge
scattered with trash.
the core slowly wilting.
A body without a burial
amidst littered humanity.
brittle winter new england weather
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.