The Oldest Apple Tree In The Region
I’m always waiting for the next line to start, this one is no good you see and the next won’t be better but it will be different, like my first time riding the bus in Portland under radioactive clouds, waiting with the cigarette butts and then waiting under the pink lights, skirting the windows and a girl says loudly into her phone, “This bitch borrowed my foundation and never gave it back!” I keep waiting to be this angry about something, anything, borrowed time I can’t get back waiting at my desk for work to come, waiting for words to come, waiting to say, “I quit!” I’ll step out and walk across the highway to an old apple orchard, the sky blushing pink reflecting off a plaque that reads, “The Oldest Apple Tree In The Region.” Scrawny limbs extending off a squat gnarled stump, the only one not bearing fruit, and I’ll think this tree isn’t waiting on anything at all.
