(We are all trying to own something, no longer for sale).
You ask to come,
to talk to me
but have nothing to say
only something to sell.
There was a time, one brilliant year
forged with the intensity of desire
tempered only by fitful sleep
when we traded words,
special morsels, cherished by us both
each one a scent, a lacquer, saliva thin
licking each other until sated.
Now it’s a complicated alphabet
with garish prefixes,
suffixes that scratch,
each one priced with thinly disguised
labels of indifference.
How many you say?
How much I counter?
© Graham Sherwood 02/2015
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