summer blonde
i don't work
at a card shop
but i could.
no man
buys these things
for himself.
you stand
at dairy queen
looking like
a peach
(is it your work uniform?)
while waiting for a
chicken strip basket a la mode.
i step into
the shadows,
check my gloss, and
dab a little
poisoned apple
to my lips.
they must be perfect
although you will
never kiss them
except in dirty fantasy.
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1 comment:
Ooohh - I love this poem. Poisoned apple. Perfect.
I'd love to meet for poetry, but this week is tough for me. I suppose your weekend is busy...?! I could plan for a night next week - A poetry session would be so refreshing.
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