I’m Not Scared

When I was a kid I knew I’d die,

if I pressed my temples hard enough

or swallowed an apple pip, I knew

that very seed would grow me open,

or if I drank from the wrong cup -

washing paint down with juice 

mid masterpiece - I knew death

crouched under the table. Still I dwell,

sometimes brood, blue thumbs firm to face,

and - for good measure - savour

every last bit to the core, licking

four fingers, concern elsewhere.

Distracted, fruit in the park stains -

on hard working hands there are scars.

Still, I can’t tell - what is juice and what is toil?