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 Continue reading The Pitch. A poem.
