There are not enough words
in a poem to justify why
the college student kills himself,
why the opening of the sticky
apple blossoms means everything,
or why I tease you with either
and don’t bother to resolve
their meaning in the end.

So feel free to put the book,
face down and open, on the kitchen table.
Next to the oranges piled
in the white bowl, and the problems
you will face today, it looks small.

When you pick up your coffee
and leave the serenity
of the morning, don’t forget
to take a piece of fruit for lunch.
The traveling companion tucked
into the bottom of your bag,
like a little blind man,
experiences only the texture of your journey.

He fights his way into a corner
trying to fend off attacks by loose pencils
while retaining an immaculate sheen.

When you finally return home
and forsake the uneaten
orange back to the bowl of his kin,
you are content to sleep never knowing
that he lay awake all night wondering
if the smell of the blossoms was to overcome
the stench of death, or if the boy
took his life in terror
of the apples coming.