He does not eat his apple the way I would—
a row of bites around the middle, the top, the bottom,
then turning the white until a slender spool is left.
He eats randomly—a chunk nearly catching the stem,
another from the opposite side.
He spits out the parts he can’t chew.
His hands get sticky with juice.
When he doesn’t find anything left to bite,
he looks up and smiles,
“That’s a good world.”