Old Wine, New Jugs

He speaks of passion             
set loose in his life
desire so intense
he calls out my name
as he spills in the night

He promised his gloves,
a love token
not sent,
words of love
'not quite writ'.

Yet he pens poems of lace
under an old lover's dress,
tells how his night spills
once came with
thoughts of her face.

The gloves, the words,
I would have preferred.

The question intrudes,
brings forth a smile.
Will he send his next love
lust poems about me,
in attempts to beguile?

Pris Campbell

Accepted for publication in
Blackmail Press, Winter 2003

Art: Caratid by William Whitaker

Music: Norah by Cisneros

William Whitaker is both gifted
artist and teacher. See his pages
for examples of both. He also is
very generous in sharing his art.

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