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
(c)2001
Accepted for publication in
Blackmail Press, Winter 2003Art: 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.
