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.