Before you take me home tonight, I have but one confession.
I don’t make any money as a writer by profession.
I’ve been working on a novel or two.
I’ve written some poems, quite a few.
Most daily labors bore me; don’t like doing what I’m told.
I’m also a procrastinator, keeps me from getting old.
While any man can give you his body, soul and heart,
I can give you all those things and a life of art.
They can scribble little notes sent with a store-bought rose.
I will pick you wildflowers each with personal prose.
Oh, I can see by your look I’ve said far too much.
But these words will easily stop when our lips touch.
Our eyes can share visions; our books can share a shelf.
Our unpenned paper hearts will create a poetry of self.
I don’t need an answer now, just a maybe and a smile will do.
So when we meet again someday, I may turn a page for you.