The Sin of Commitment, #57

I’ll never have you
so I’ll eat apples,
sink teeth into flesh,
let drip on my chin
clear and lifegiving
fluid. I know you
said I could eat it,
and I should have tried
that night, when we sat
under city lights.
I read the poem
to you in darkness
that hung in my heart.
The price of kissing
is your life.
You asked
about my girlfriend
arriving at dawn.
I succumbed, that was
to say, not this way.

I’ll never have you,
so I’ll sell apples
off a cart downtown,
in the city where
you left me, hanging
on the heavy limb
of my own prudence,
where the next morning
I packed up and sat
quiet beside my
delicious girlfriend.
I’ve lugged this bushel
around for too long,
fed myself on its
deep autumn anguish,
its rustic turning,
begged to be let back
into the garden.
How much for a peck?

I’ll never have you,
so I will sustain
myself on apples,
ignore the worms, live
with the dull knowledge
of the joy losing
one’s self, the great gifts
that come by breaking
vows naively made.
And who knows, that night
we might have finally
kissed, and been kicked out
of this faux plastic
garden, another
sarcastic, divorced,
bitter statistic.
Knowing what we might
have had to spit out,
I’d say it’s worth it.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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