Intensely resenting a red gala

I resist an apple
the same way I resist
my writing.
It is so much work,
so much washing and drying,
so much tough skin–
the strange fleshy wood of the stem
and the bitter seeds besides.
There are so many softer snacks
begging to be picked up:
a flood of emails,
a pile of laundry,
a host of banal but satisfying chores
I could complete
instead of the wrestling, the grappling,
the itchy resistance and the
cackling fiend voices of failure.
But today, I put in my hour of sweat.
The sharp crunch, the tang,
the wild sweetness.