Apple is as apple does—a working fruit
that keeps the doctor away, that shines in a lover’s eye.
It moderates kraut’s sauer, and provides cinnamon
a permanent place to wallow. Its tight little body
fits snugly alongside its neighbor, to recline
on rickety fruit stands across the Nation.
Then there’s pandowdy, with no etymology,
it cannot be derived, so make it as you like it:
a dozen finely blemished lowercase apples
swashed in molasses, maple syrup bubbling up.
Rolling out of children’s half-hitched backpacks
the red delicious careens along school hallways
where jagged fissures on terrazzo floors
under weight of cleats and galoshes, run
counter to design like kids racing toward their dreams.
Jean Cassidy
