Apples

More purple than red, more rotten than
delicious; stretched out on the blanket you
borrowed from your grandmother in a park

whose name I couldn't pronounce; somewhere
in the mountains, the foothills. We were polite
then and didn't say anything;

we didn't even wash them first. A middle-aged
man rode by, pedaling down the path on a
yellow four-wheeled bicycle. Such a

strange sight he was; such a strange sight we
must have been, carefully biting around the
​brown spots.
 
K. Edward Dunn lives and writes in New Jersey. His work has most recently been included in the WestWard Quarterly and the Eunoia Review.