If a single apple were to tell a story
of my mother's kitchen,
it would go something like this:

Recently removed
from my mother's stem,
moved inside from out,
cord cut, window shut,
I sit on the stove
and wait.

I am a single apple
too green for a sauce,
too small for a pie.
I sit alone wondering
why I was chosen.

Yes, I am a philosopher, Applestotle,
sitting next to a pool of grease,
grease from the roast pork,
and I wonder,
why was I chosen?

In walks a woman.
Oh yes, a woman in the kitchen,
doing dishes.
I'm not a sexist.
It's just a coincidence.

Her stoic lips
go in for the ****
and the last thing I remember,
is her carbon breath,
as I tasted the bony structure of her teeth.