‘There’s small choice in rotten apples’, he quoted,
as he sank his teeth into the Pink Lady.
The sign had declared, ‘Choice Apples’.
But why, he thought, as his tongue found the worm hidden within,
had he chosen this one.
No money,
No opportunities,
No future.
No choice,
but to live his life
chewing on the scraps and worms
he came across
in the fruit basket of his existence.
Oh yes,
he has the choice
to eat or to keep warm,
to sleep in the park
or in that doorway on the Arndale centre.
Happiness is a choice, the comfortable say
but it’s hard to make that choice
when you are hungry, tired and cold.
Caught between a rock and a hard place,
between the devil and the deep blue sea,
on the horns of a dilemma.
Call me Hobson, he thought.
Choices are the hinges of destiny,
but his door is locked
from the outside.
Malcolm Henshall