Fruitless

I haven’t had fruit in the frig
or lunchbox for days.
The tables at home are covered
with bills, papers and paints
from projects completed, quite past
yet too present in disarray.
Photos on walls tip off center,
appear insolent, almost drunk
with neglect
or the unseen passing of time.

If I smoked cigarettes or drank whiskey with lust,
these would be the days of addictive bust,
but I don’t imbibe to any extent,
life without fresh fruit or thick steak
and this generalized mess
is how my loss shows its disguise.

Breathing slow and deep opens me
to maintain mere balance of thought
with hoping full feeling may in time
be back brought
into this life of mine
right now so still,
but distraught.