Last Call

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.




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