Pris Campbell, Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree

Pris Campbell
DON’T SIT UNDER THE APPLE TREE

I look for my love-fix
in glazed over eyes, men
who woo 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.

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