jr

The Apple Poem
by JR

The crunch of an apple in the middle of the night,
not unlike the static on the line
when someone tells you,
"Im sorry," when they are not sorry,

or, "I have company,"
when their new lover looks at them,
raising an eyebrow, "Who is that on the telephone?",
taking a hard bite out of an apple, you swear,
belongs to you.

The fruit is placed as silent as a candle to the table,
and they slither out of robes like unwanted skin.

You wish they would shed under some rock
in a far away desert,
their exposed flesh
peppered in hot sand,

realizing suddenly they are not snakes,
and then dying,
unaware of all there is to say
regarding mankind, snakes, and apples.