You sat on that dinosaur  rug
As she read you
“The Giving Tree”.

The baby dolls you carved your name into;
chefs spatula and firefighting hat
grew a dust collection.

Looking through a broken glass
which once was a room
                   filled
with the ideal heavens...

A grey fur lay still on your cheeks
where your masseter
used to worked diligently.

The Lady with the apple,
has now rested her apple core
beneath the soils.

With a gust of wind
A paper flies past the glass
left standing weak in the window
blurring your vision.

A rigid damp green cover--
Of a small boy reaching up
Waiting for the apple to fall