cortland apples

I am a child of mundanity, the bruised fruit
picked at the tail of autumn,
cortland apples, my grandfather
cut down a brace of trees 
he has renal failure. The trees were not dead
they only had ceased to bear fruit, 
their only crime, that they were no longer useful
who will serve me, when purpose is not 
the purpose that I serve, when I am bruised fruit gone soft