Worthy

The sun lays down its weary head
And people all go home.
On the cold, dark ground: an apple.

A backpack with a holey pouch
Had lost its resident.
The poor fruit, alone, fell from grace.

A little bruise, a couple scuffs
Made it inedible.
So it sat all night in the road.

As days went by, the people saw
The poor thing rot away.
Pushed it to the gutter; stayed away.

Until at last the thing was gone
The street a bit more clean.
A stray dog, starving, ate it up.