Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree

I look for my love-fix
in dead men's eyes, men
who woo me with words writ
for pennies tossed in a cup.

I've lain in too many beds
that sag like a fat man's coffin,
reek of other women's perfume.

Like the Times Square clock,
I've seen them all come and go.

Tonight's lover turns in his sleep,
calls out another woman's name.
His words fade into the damp city heat,
then fall as a flash shower
around midnight,
startling two hookers,
high-heeling their way home.



Pris Campbell
2004

 

Art: ALLPOSTERS.COM

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