Because I don’t want to give the impression
to the young woman reading several yards away
that I am the thoughtless sort of scrub

who makes enormous chunky chewing sounds
when eating an apple, proclaiming his God-given right
to make all the smack and slosh of a washing machine,

I slowly slide my teeth through the doughty
sweet appleflesh, like the huge tunneling machines,
secretive, parsing through Cambrian shale

before realizing that, to most observers,
it would appear I was giving the blushing apple
a long, fierce home-coming kiss, eyes wide.

A loud moist pop when the large bite parts from the apple,
and I am horrified by the grating work of my mouthparts,
and again uncertain of which face I wish to turn to the world.