He peeled the moist green apples,
And drove the knife in to their center.
He pushed it in slowly and slowly,
And cored them with precision.
Next he cracked some eggs
And with his fingers caught the yolk.
Even though it slipped and slopped,
He managed to pull them out.
With his knuckles he kneeded the dough
And flattened it with the palm of his hands.
A little butter he slathered on it
And neatly folded them in to a cone.
He smoked a cigarette on preheat,
And frantically looked for something,
while the cones baked.
At last he found it in the chill tray,
rose red frozen blood in my blue veins,
a thin layer of ice on my fresh heart.
Like a musician he chopped it up.
Apple pie in pockets,
Baked shiny brown,
Crisp and fragrant,
Full of wet apples.
He then julliened my heart and sprinkled it,
On his rustic homely dessert.
He ate it without a pause.
