Promises In Ginger Poem by Charlotte Ballard

Whispers of a secret
Hinted by the scent of
A Granny Smith
Apple chewed into
Quarters, no bigger
Than my thumb.

I plead for the key
That unlocks that crisp
Perfection of cinnamon,
Crisped sugar
Sprinkled on top

Vanilla promises to make
Me wish that long legs
Came on bottles trucked
In from Mexico, on brown
Backed workers, wearing
Faded denim shirts soaked
In Sweat.

It’s a promise that
Doesn’t keep
Me warm at night
Or frost off a car
Turned north.
Only the sparkle
Of Heaven turned eyes
Mean anything to me
Or ruin what should have
Been, could have been.
I dream of toasters
Knitted in soft pastels,
Let me find you a couple of
Promises that fit in a shoebox
Shoved under your bed,
Forgotten until the funeral.