did she at least pluck a ripe

Red Delicious

or a nice Gala

maybe a McIntosh

or a perfect Honeycrisp,

probably not a Winesap, those are hard to come by,

nor a Granny Smith, which are better for pies and such,

but a sweet, juicy variety,

the nectar

running like a mountain stream

down the contours of her arm,

meaty and satisfying,

infusing her with

satiation and

satisfaction-

that husky snap

when you take a bite,

on a crisp Autumn day

when the sun is determined,

eeking out the evaporating warmth of goodness,

clinging like a desperate leaf,

a cool breeze harkening the imminent darkness;

 

or did she even consider the downside,

the mess, the stickiness,

or how really pissed he would be

because the tree wasn’t hers

and she’d been warned-

he’d drawn a line in the dirt

and made his position very clear;

 

was she really that naïve,

or just careless

or dazzled by the pastoral scene

that smacked of a still-wet Titian?

​

whatever her excuse, she sure caused a bruhaha

 

and people just will.not.let.it.go.