Apple Tree

You have packed your boxes
14 years of memorabilia
from your cubicle desk in a record time
of 4 hours,
scooped into brown boxes and blue IKEA bags.

You return to your enclosure
with physical relief,
your body heavy
climbing the stairs in the dark,
the hallway light is out.

You turn your keys
and take a peek of what’s to come:
Heaps of laundry piles undone,
flashcards of ABCs and 123s forming a trail to the kitchen,
a cry.

You switch on the light,
it flickers.

A drawing of an apple tree pasted to the wall
the brown strokes and green curves protecting
the inner red heart within
against a grey sky of yellow flashes.

You see the violence of the top half
unable to penetrate
that rooted lone apple tree,
you drop your boxes.

It’s okay.
It will all be fine.