the bad apple

i don't choose apples
well.
or at least i didn't in
my youth.
shiny, and golden,
would be fine, right off
the stack,
or plucked from
a low branch.
my eyes were everything
back then.

but not now.

i spin, and hold an apple
in my hand, i look
at the front
the back, i ignore
the shine,
ignore the price.
i look for the dents,
the worm.
the deceit the lie.
i pay attention to who
i want now
in my life.