Whispers of a secret <br />Hinted by the scent of <br />A Granny Smith <br />Apple chewed into <br />Quarters, no bigger <br />Than my thumb. <br /> <br />I plead for the key <br />That unlocks that crisp <br />Perfection of cinnamon, <br />Crisped sugar <br />Sprinkled on top <br /> <br />Vanilla promises to make <br />Me wish that long legs <br />Came on bottles trucked <br />In from Mexico, on brown <br />Backed workers, wearing <br />Faded denim shirts soaked <br />In Sweat. <br /> <br />It’s a promise that <br />Doesn’t keep <br />Me warm at night <br />Or frost off a car <br />Turned north. <br />Only the sparkle <br />Of Heaven turned eyes <br />Mean anything to me <br />Or ruin what should have <br />Been, could have been. <br />I dream of toasters <br />Knitted in soft pastels, <br />Let me find you a couple of <br />Promises that fit in a shoebox <br />Shoved under your bed, <br />Forgotten until the funeral.<br /><br />Charlotte Ballard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/promises-in-ginger/
