They sit outside their dreams, look in at
joy as bright as an advertising slogan.
This one lacks just a theme song, while that
watches life burn like a childhood toboggan.
Their apples bruised, red and white lessened
by brown somehow, the feast has turned to ashes,
the garden is snake-infested and
impure, their soft skin runs with the rain’s lashes.
It isn’t supposed to end this way:
endlessly worn down, the blade dulled and undrawn
except to butter toast or to slay
a dragonfly or wasp. Where have their days gone?
Common successes rot on the vine
while they linger over vinegar like wine.