night vendor

she peddles her ware
far into the night.
her dark thoroughfare
(when her prices are right)
draws suitors who hunger
and thirst for her sweets,
when vendors should decently
snooze in their sheets.

her soursops are sweet,
her sweetsops are sour;
the grapes of her orchard
men quickly devour,
who mortgage good sense
to finance vain needs,
her cherry wine sating
naught of their fat greed.

red-ribbon parfums,
dark-chocolat delights,
the fruit of her looming
she dangles in sight
of pot-bellied men
enticed by her dance,
as down in the gutters
they vie for a chance

her basket to drain
of peaches and plums,
of pomegranates and
whatever might come
to please lips and tongues
that die for a taste
of bait on the tong yet
unknown to the chaste.

© Copyright 2019 August 15