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  • Todd Wooten

Song for the Spoiled

there's an apple tree behind my house

flesh growing along the limbs

bees circling, rushing to find the best seat

blushing beauties, swaying at the attention

hanging with the hope

of becoming a pie, or juice, or a table display

perhaps a cobbler, or caramel'd, keeping doctors away

the barked trunk stretches down to the roots

exposed on occasion in the shaded light

caressing a green child, harvested out of season

skin bruised, rot spreading

exiled and oxidized

for ants, and worms, and flies

perhaps birds, or mold, a fetid meal for the ground

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