Apple

Once upon a late Sunday
As afternoon turns to evening,
Spring shows green before
Summer.

I saw you
Sat In an old
Armchair

Turning an apple
Over and over
In your hand –

Left – not right.
Twist its sheen skin
Red flecked with green
Complexion that fills
The palm of your
Hand –

Neglected to turn the
Stalk
Until it snaps
She loves me
Loves me not.

The mind wanders
Wonders – what
Happened to
Snow White?
If the apple still
Stays lodged in
Her throat.

See her sleeping
Serene – a place
Unknown
Since the September
You slipped your hand
Free.

Inconsequential – now.
Rather akin to the man
in Dicken’s
Debtors prison – blacking tan.
Thoughts that consumed.
Urgent of:
How are you?
What are you doing ?
Have you eaten?