Arbitrareum: Of Right-Forking Trails

An older man pushes laps
On his cart.
The wheels are rickety
But the sides shine of freshly polished aluminum.
The umbrella reads in red and green: “Apollo’s Pizza.”

A woman’s back is covered in earth and briars.
She crunches forward, gasping,
And smacks into a man’s face.
She coughs and sobs,
Clinging to the fabric, still at half-an-arm’s-length.
She sees the nametag sewn onto the shirt
And sputters, “Thank you, Apollo.”

A plastic bottle is crushed
Among its comrades.
Weight bears down and builds slowly.
In a few days, the pressure will release,
Only to be replaced 1,000-fold.
As of now, its label is split down
The words “Aqua” and “Apollo.”

A man arrives home
From a full day’s walking.
He stands on a mat
And closes the door behind him.
He tosses his coat to the banister.
It drapes evenly in half.
He tosses his hat at the banister.
It lands in the other room.
He grunts as he bends to untie his boots.