All Apples Rot

 All Apples Rot

Here is the house,

Four hundred years in the making.

Built with bleached bones and Black blood.

Slicked with centuries of sweat.

Burn marks etched into the hardwood floor.

Nothing more American than apple pie.

Gooey brown sugar and rancid flesh

Served up to the highest bidder.

Rot wriggles from beneath,

As maggots eat away at the crust.

We’re sent to eat in the kitchen

When company comes.

Dirty dishes pile high,

Rank resentment wafts through the air.

But we laugh.

Nothing lasts forever.

A teeny dent,

A tiny crack in this mythical melting pot.

XOXO, Michaela