The Pitch. A poem.

Every time I see her
The briefest moment fleeting
My time with her is limited
To a nondescript meeting

It takes less than a minute
To make the magic pitch
To appeal to better nature
Before regret becomes an itch

But then the meeting’s ended
No optioned heart’s desire
For two souls to be blended
Dream buried in the mire

One thing appears so obvious
And this I’m certain of
I’m really not a salesman
I’m just in (unrequited) love

Powered by

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: