the pyramid of apples

you see the man
in the grocery store
stacking apples into
a neat pyramid. you've
seen this man for years
maybe twenty, maybe
a few more. your hair
has thinned through
the years, as his has.
you've watched him,
without words in the fish
department shoveling
shaved ice behind
the glass, lining up
in neat rows, side
by side the trout,
the flounder, monk fish.
you've never spoken
or even exchanged a nod,
he would avert his
eyes most times and
concentrate on what
he was doing.
at the deli he was
precise and polite
as he cut the meats,
slicing cheese, and
doling out pounds
of potato salad.
you often wondered who
would give in first,
and disappear, but you
both hung in there
through the change of
seasons, the holidays
until finally one day
he was gone.
dead? who knows, retired,
or moved, who knows.
but there in his place
was a young man
in a starched white
shirt, almost a boy,
standing in the same
spot, beneath
the fluorescent lights
where you first saw the other
man. there was the new
boy stacking gala
apples into pyramid,
he smiled as you came
in, you noded, and said hello.
you didn't have the heart
to tell him what he would
one day find out.