Resentment

Why don't I sweep up the rinds of my memories,
The sad losses at the end of each blissful season of my life,

Dry, stiff moons of orange and white rubbery mass,

 Lying behind the garbage can, among the dust of other days

After the extravagant and joyous fruit has been long ago devoured?

I spurn them,

                        and let them haunt me.

This bitter refuse is all that remains of things I once relished.