• Seneca Basoalto

Over the Hill

a man in his 50's told me I was over the hill

and soon — I would no longer be ripe or sweet

since I was six I have been anticipating my own

sense of rot and mold — watching for how quickly

exhaustion trundles me — taking notes on scars

and stressors that map themselves out onto this

constitution in flux — wondering, if I have been

nothing more than the bruised apples I leave

on the ground underneath the tree — all because

one spot had the misfortune of falling instead of

being plucked

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