I went shopping this week in a new supermarket (I mean, new to me, not new in general). The vegetables and fruit were not the shiny-perfect of the ones where I usually shop, and I realised when I got home, that I actually bought apples because I felt sorry for them being ugly. (Psychologists, put down your pens, I am already aware of my foibles.)
So then I wrote a poem about the ugly apples, and vowed to enjoy every bite of my ugly apples, even though apples give me indigestion, and don’t actually have feelings. I HAVE HAD A VERY EMOTIONAL WEEK, OK?!?!?! Lots of things have happened, some of which I will attempt to write about soon. Thanks for hanging around if you’ve been waiting for me to re-emerge. I appreciate your patience. Enjoy my testament to the ugly apples. I’m off to have some Gaviscon and a chocolate biscuit.
The Ugly Apple
I am an ugly apple,
Spot-ridden, misshapen and uneven colours.
It has never worried me before,
In all my lumpy imperfection,
To be the second-best choice.
He turned me over, examined my peel,
His fingers gentle, his appreciation sincere.
But then he put me back.
I rolled to rest between my brothers and sisters,
And watched from my less-than-graceful position,
As his eye was drawn to you.
He plucked you from the box,
Held you up to the light and admired you,
Smelled your fragrant, sweet scent,
Ran a soft caress across your unmarked skin,
And placed you in his basket,
His choice, the perfect apple.
No-one else has come to claim me.
A girl picks me up, and her finger jabs me,
Through my skin, through the soft, woolly flesh
That my wafer thin exterior concealed.
She is disgusted, and I fall from her hand to the ground,
With a quiet, muted splat.
The broom will find me later,
If the shop boy remembers to sweep.