In Any Orchard Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Comes to mind
‘that lowest bough'
the drop from these; just scars.
Imagine then being the last to
slowly slip away and fall!
Having served no purpose
throughout a lifetime, having
failed to achieve much of anything
having no legacy… upon finding any
of your psyche; just as you are about
to die! Ah, the turning of each hourglass
an upend of grains of sand that equal time.
And you, had counted each, and every grain
issued out to you as if providence had ‘dropped
a proverbial dime; ' and not made the count
before issuing that sparse load to your
lifetime of living account… how very
diminishing for you this process is
you, a being of such a negative
omnipotence! How dissimilar
you were, against all the other
fruit that fell. That crazed nut or
pith, lacking seed… Perhaps the sun's
light did not reach deeply enough, to allow
you a timely maturity? And how indecipherable
was, your lifetime's extant, any experience proved
moot, and distrainable. Your Fate now sets the record
straight… what you were given of life was not obtainable!
Your fortune was to be as decaffeinated coffee is; bland
almost tasteless and without an energizing vestibule
leaving you, without that network connection to
any and all things possible! Phuuck! Your life
must have been held next to the impossible!
It, an antiquated improbability, exhaling all
things and events negative; life with an aversion
to anything positive? One hill of faux assumptions or
suppositions, or opinions; that were not recognizable?
Talk about a lifetime of set to fail opportunities… How
much more gross, could your waning time be? Just
‘sack up' and end this schist! Tonight! Make formal
this engrossingly discarded and absolutely F.U.B.A.R.
life of your ir-reality! Would you please hurry on and
‘take the shot'! You nescient pile of pig schist! You
are, the penultimate doormat, the lowest, abet
now previous hung fruit, off of the lowest
hanging bough; in any orchard!