Paved

Maybe the young poets, like a growing list of dirt roads, are being paved over. Asphalt is easy, doesn't muddy your feet with innumerable words, but I am writing about myself again. That's why I order the wrong things to eat. It is non-sensical to sit at a bar so early in the evening while the Sun still shines. No one expects a middle-aged blue shirt to ask for hummus. It is my own fault for not ascribing the order a number, maybe the 8th in the Fibonacci sequence or the 5th because it's not cliche', but since all the young poets have been paved over, so what? None of these fit the formula nor factor into the equation that seems to want a series for input. Am even I being paved over by something as impersonal as mathematics?  The real question is do I want to finish my beer? I suppose there is no answer to this unless I want to give it one, which leads to a related question what answer will I give? One from a vast forest of unusual trees laden with all manner of strange fruit. Some of it is surely poisonous. Some will outright kill me, some will make me vomit, still more may only make me wish I was dead. Here I am with all this black skinned fruit that's oozing milky white pus. I'm tired of it. I've got a whole dirt basement full of this fruit. I've stacked up bushel baskets of it on the second-floor stairs. Maybe It's time to vacate, stand in the field with my head over my shoulder and watch timbers writhe in flames. Is there any difference between a growing mass of black fruit and a billowing tower of dark smoke? It's the feta cheese that's going to kill me tonight.