When a bruise on an apple is almost not there—
a diminutive, delicate, decorous blip
scarcely bigger around than a baby flea's hair—
it becomes the one part our attention can't skip;
though the rest of the fruit is as smooth as good booze,
we will pass it right up with a curl of the lip.
But suppose that an apple's got bruise upon bruise,
toxic mold that would make a mycologist squirm,
and a core full of rot that is starting to ooze:
we'll keep searching the thing from its stem to its worm
for a spot—any spot!—that our stomachs can bear,
then elect that bad apple to serve its first term.