The bloody vomit

Of a sick smoker splattered

On the cement in front

Of the stalled midnight bus

looks like a cherry smushed

under a heel.

His kisses are stems, little

Strands of red lust stringed

Between teeth and tongues.

Didn’t your mother tell you

Of how cupid steals stems for growing

From under uvulas in open mouth

Embraces when teenagers aren’t

Careful?

The fruit itself is a

hand holding a baseball

and preparing to

chuck it into the infield. It

never hits the dirt, but finds

glass filled windowpanes and

shatters them.