Apples by Brittany Good

Where I come from the air reeks of apples.
Against the gnarled trees rest burned-out car frames,
charred balls of boredom.
Milton used to stand, withered and frail,
on the decaying sidewalk in front of the town library,
waving sweetly to the passing cars.
He has faded to a breath of dust by now — a pale apparition.
The roads, speckled with crooked lines, twist and contort
through ragged mountains.

Not in Boston, where the homeless seem like artists
who have lost their way.
Walking through Beacon Hill, I twist my ankles
on the cobblestone streets.
I pass a woman so perfectly contrived —
a Burberry jacket to match
her microscopic dog’s Burberry sweater.
I finger the frosty wrought-iron gates,
warped metal snakes of the wealthy.

As I stand in front of the 7-Eleven,
its wood-carved, gold-accented sign
creaking in the bleak Boston wind,
I spot a man across the street.
He’s donning khaki overalls
splattered in blue, red, and green paint,
dragging viciously on his Marlboro Red,
his eyes like two rotting apples.
I think of home.

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[first read in Mastodon Dentist number five; used with permission of author via Propaganda Press]