It’s a working fruit, that keeps the doctor away and 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, in order 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 the weight of cleats and goloshes,
run counter to design, like kids racing toward their dreams.
Enjoy –
