the night before the big blue truck comes to swallow
the contents of the green bin, where the compostables
join thousands of early sycamore leaves browned
by summer,

I think, not for the first time, how could I have
forgotten those peaches I was so looking forward
to? And why did I leave them in the vegetable bin
with the past-their-prime green onions?

Peaches belong in a pretty bowl on the counter
so I’ll see them and eat them. Perhaps leaning over
the sink, or cutting them up to plop on yogurt,
or putting then in a bowl with blueberries.

After dark I set all five of the gooshy things into
a green compostable bag, along with the onions,
and walk them out to the green bin on the curb,
apologizing to the fruit for my forgetfulness,

shaking my head at my wastefulness. Then
I head back inside, open the fridge to find
the blueberries, sprinkle a handful atop some
yogurt, still thinking how good peaches

would taste. I add them to the grocery list
in my sieve of a brain, the cranial hard drive
so full that odds and ends, smiles and voices
I’d prefer to keep, spill out and roll away

like, yes, sweet, ripe peaches.