like an apple
fallen from a tree.
Soft, brown—
Festering alcohol.
Stepped on, ridden over
by lawn mowers—
and left out there
to sit and shrivel;
Redeemed only by bees—
that burrow inside
to tear loose
his sweetest parts.
She tells her friends
how she made her honey,
swiveling her antennae
so that they can follow.

The life of a man,
after his woman
drops him;
He’d have been better off
never having been picked;
Left for the birds;
An orgy of worms.
Dangling from that stem—
growing red, bright
and juice filled;
Waiting for the pie maker
to cut him up like cancer.
All that will remain is his core—
and a couple seeds,
but those get spit out too.

written on 02/15/2011 by: Matt Kane