Fruit

The truck pulled in without a single rattle,

the engine just a hum against the driveway gravel.

He didn't even use the handle to close the door,

just a hip-nudge, easy, like he wasn't tired at all.

I’m behind the blinds, the plastic slats biting

at my knuckles as I pull them down an inch.

He’s carrying a brown paper bag of peaches,

the fuzz on them probably soft as a clean sheet.

He took the porch steps two at a time,

his knees swinging smooth, no grinding of bone,

no pause to catch a breath or steady a hand.

The juice of that fruit is a stinging, sweet knot

at the back of my tongue, and I want to spit.