She carries a wicker picnic basket
filled with apples smashed to sauce.
They wet the checkerboard cloth
and make the contents a bit messy,
but there’s nothing tastier
than a delivery of homemade
in the wintertime.
The fruits are fizzy and fermented
from sitting in the sun too long,
becoming green, envious apples
though they began
To keep them fresh,
the flesh is washed in wicked witch;
her armpits the secret spice in this mulled cider,
the antibiotic to scare away microbes
before the pretty girl has a taste.
You tried to resist,
Snowy skin betraying hints of nervousness
in the lipstick flush of your cheeks.
You tried to keep your distance from the old lady,
whose skin was a bit too wrinkled and
nose a bit to crooked to be anything
but a bad makeup job.
But you bought Girl Scout cookies last week
and would feel…
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