Ache

I feel sorry for the untouched, freezer-burned strawberry ice cream in the quart of neopolitan. For the stale, unbitten donut with the pink frosting and colorful sprinkles. For the sticky pineapple hard candy, the only one in the dish for at least a week. For the bruised peach and the mealy apple.
My heart aches for the cheese that stands alone after the farmer’s wife and everyone else is taken.
The lone tree on the median strip, gasping on exhaust fumes. The dandelions, beheaded by the lawnmower. The unbought bagels tossed into the mass grave of the dumpster. The last puppy picked from the litter. And his mom, who has to see him go.