Short Stomping Ground Poems

Hometown Rot

don’t judge fallen fruit
by the color of its skin
rot begins inside

I visit my youthful stomping ground less and less each year. Somehow, the place seems damaged to me. Like a ripe apple that has fallen into the grass. It might be shiny and delicious looking on the top, but when you bend to pick it up, you can see it's mushy and bruised underneath.