Superficially
Traversing the produce aisle
I see the apples ally
Themselves. I take them all home to the criper.
My fridge fully
Taken over by taut, red skins, pearly
Flesh guaranteed beneath. The allure
Of fruity delights--so crispy!--
I can resist no longer. I sail
As though drawn by ancient, Orient spice . . .
I slice . . .
But cripes!
The apples, on the outside fine
Have shriveled beneath the surface.
It's cool; I know the cure
For soft apples is apple pie.