Apple tree knocking softly at my mother
Through his bedroom window
Like branches culled that do not bear fruit
This house is full of dead things
Dusty, old things saved, hoarded
Afforded by a man slowly
Turning his house into a storage locker
Softer ever softer
His voice of reason less reasonable
Each and every passing day
Break the branches off
Haul away the broken toilets
By the old house next to ours
Transformed too, for storage
Of forgotten things
Left in forgotten places
Change the sheets on the bed he died in
Abstain from the piss stain pool
But true, I suppose
The apples knock knock knocking
Against your window, true.
I suppose that’s more pressing than grief.