to the ground. Worms
are crawling in the holes
as it rolls down the hill. Fed

as swill for the pigs. Too fat
for the slender twig. No man
picked it as it hung, spry and green

when it was young. Ripe and
full of juice it broke loose. It was not
plucked. A man didn’t

duck. And hit his head on the orb
of red. All the others turned to pies
and sauce. Or golden juice. Or served

with lox. If it only was a shooting star,
not ashes flaked off man’s cigar.