Nothing special about the day,
Except when you sat
At that table in some street café,
And saw a young woman
Remove a rosy red apple
From her bag and brush it
Slowly against her dress
As if wishing to conjure up
A memory of some previous night.

You sat unnoticed, at least
By her, and watched her lift
The apple to her lips
And close her eyes.

The apple lingered
Held by her hand, barely
Inches from that soft
Red skin (maybe she was
Thinking of him, who made
Her the night before)
And the lips parting slightly,
Almost whispering, the tongue,
Like some pink snake, brushed
Along the lower flesh, the scent
Of apple touched her sense
Of smell like tickled ***.

You smiled to yourself,
Not her, as she opened her eyes
And took a bite and ate sedately.

(You’d not seen
That posh dame lately,
The one who stayed
And bruised your soul).

Maybe she was thinking
Of her night of love as she
Seduced each mouthful of juice
And joy and swallowed slow
And breathed the midday air.

Then she had gone,
Moved on with apple
And her memories and you
Left behind with those images
Of her and the apple
Captured in your memory,
An art form in your fertile mind.