Ghetto Purgatory

a warm fall day
a blizzard of swirling yellow leaves
an apple….
many apples… sliced, even baked
-consumed.
its cold out now
waiting, waiting
its cold out now
and the ferry is late in coming
to take us over to
our promised destination,
or just to
take us.
but those apples were nice
fresh, and nice.
but the air now,
so cold…
and my heart
like ice.
is it wrong?
or is this where I belong?

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