A Pome a Day for a Year

Ninety degrees of separation twixt hot and cold,
they patter in bubbles, surrounded by lists,
and you are a solo commando;
orders from on high to rescue the hostages,
your weekly mission, your constant foe.

Wide splashes of marketing,
advertising screaming like
the rotors of a helicopter drowning out all
mental focus, as metal cages bash and slam;
the warfare tanks full of produce.

The plans have changed, adaptability key,
the layout from last weeks operation useless
amid a rising tide of change for change’s sake
and your eyes dart,
locating the trapped and helpless. Vowing
their safety until your own heel turn.