Poetry

The Price of Love

If I opened my wallet and dumped what little change I had

on the counter, beside the man in blue, would he acknowledge me?

Could I buy his time, his companionship, if only for a moment?

It’s possible, though I am doubtful, that he would accept.

That is not love, though, merely the illusion of camaraderie.

Two lonely souls seeking satisfaction without consequence.

He may love the body, for a night or two, but his heart would not be mine.

I cannot write, on the lines of  my checkbook, paid for love.

But if, just if, it was possible, to buy this emotion I speak of,

what would be the price? Does the amount convert to local currency?

If so, is possible that I could get a discount?

I mean, I am not trying to sell love short or rip it off.

I just feel like love owes me something more

than the countless lines it consumes in the pages of my poetry.

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