The sign says Pick-Ur-Own. An arrow points down the road. I remain noncommittal, even when a man lifts his little daughter up to pluck a fat red apple off a branch. I’m there only because a person has to be somewhere. My heart is disfigured beyond fixing, a consequence possibly of microplastics, heredity, alcohol, or schooling. The man and his daughter walk away hand in hand down a wide grassy aisle between two long rows of trees. You have to step carefully, though, or you can trip over the apples scattered on the ground, some with disappointing bites taken out of them.
Complications Ensue
They buried him on a cold, damp day in a cheap coffin that lacked handles, a nameplate, cloth lining, or a cushion for his head. A total of five people, all strangers to each other, attended the burial,. I was the one with a haggard, unwashed face and wearing clothes that weren’t my own. Given the poor turnout, the minister decided to forgo a sermon. He quietly pocketed his fee and departed the graveyard for Ryan’s Tavern. The entire ceremony had lasted maybe three minutes. Throughout, the sky looked like rain, but wound up only threatening.
House of Pain
Ever been mauled by a dog? Had a hot needle jabbed in your eye? How about a tumor hacked off your spine? Pain is omnifarious. Just ask me. I have had sharp pains and dull pains, pains that jangle and pains that roar, pains without and pains within. Pain is a god but a god that tap dances in unpolished shoes with worn-down heels. Go ahead, beg it to stop. It won’t. Pain insists on evolving new tortures. Death is more like a baseball cap. One size fits all.
Howie Good's latest poetry collection, True Crime, is scheduled to be published by Sacred Parasite in early 2026.
