By Tim Seigel
Monsignor reached for the honey crisp
from the wicker basket
on top of the scratched, old wooden counter.
Like the apple from a forbidden tree,
its fruit looked good, a simple snack
with some sharp cheddar cheese, and a cheap white wine.
A twist of the wrist proved the apple was good,
with high, impatient expectation of that sweet crispy fruit
he bit longing for that imminent delight.
But that instant shudder, screwing up his entire face;
mouth, eyes, nose, bushy brows, and lined forehead,
all shrinking into some poisonous, ghastly center
of his consciousness, the rotten mushy mess
was expectorated into a dirty dish piled in the sink.
Without another thought the apple went on the block,
a sharp paring knife sliced it in half with ease.
Starting from the brown rotted mass left gaping from his bite,
he carved, like a surgeon cutting away a cancer,
until he found the crisp white meat millimeters from the seeds.
The operation was inevitable for the other half as well.
Expertly cutting the sweet juicy fruit
into nearly translucent slices, a fat square of yellow,
pungent cheese was placed upon each, eaten
with delightful moscato sips,
he slept until the game came on.
February 20, 2016
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This Poems Story
The old retired priest lives a simple life. Nothing good is wasted. Everything good is enjoyed.