the poetry of Charles Fry

9 August 1995

purple sunset

i lick the peanut butter off your fingers
even though it's hardened and tastes like chalk.
Maybe one day we can take your hands in
and have them checked for insomnia.
i collapse my umbrella and hold it over my head
to keep off the shade.
Then again, the doctor left his license in Italy
when he vacationed to see the cobblestone.
But come on, i mean he can't remember everything.
i close my eyes so the sun won't burn my cornia,
and it turns purple like it's setting or somethin'.
i always have liked sunsets a lot --
so pretty and always fun to watch.
Your scream startles me and i realize
i've inadvertently bitten your precious finger.
You pull it out of my mouth
leaving small blood stains on my wooden lips.
i shiver at the bitter taste that slides down my throat.

Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry