the apple

she slices
the red apple
at her kitchen table,
the knife
pressing hard
into the core,
carving it
into quarters,
she places the pieces
onto a plate.
there is no rush.
the radio is on low.
small yellow birds are in
the feeder
making it swing
gently
against the window.
the apples are tart
against her tongue.
she's had better
ones before, but these
will do this cold
morning with nowhere
to be, no place to go.