The Handle's Groove

The apple, cold, round in my left hand.

My right just reached,

didn't look, didn't think,

for the heavy one.

The chef's knife.

Its weight, just so.

The worn spot on the dark wood handle,

a hollow where my thumb

always settles.

Cold steel against my palm.

A smooth, practiced motion,

the blade a silver blur.

The apple yields.

Another slice.

Didn't even have to try.