Little League Salesman
Listen to my story, familiar, I’m sure,
Listen to it, yes, I’m afraid, insecure.
With all that is, the masked thief,
If you listen, it is the whisper deep in the trees,
The gossiping dust devil spinning around town,
Just listen. You’ll recognize its sounds.
What is the truth? How should I know?
Truth, a tidal wave? Tsunami? No, a tornado.
Truth, dusty, clogging your throat,
Truth, like a tree full of billy goats.
Whipping up trailer parks, redepositing old cars,
Your use of truth sure varies from who you are.
Why are you here, really, why?
For the murder of crows, or for my lullabies?
Dancing, with your fancy, tippy-toe moves,
Dancing, dancing, needing even more shoes,
Dancing, dodging, flogging our love’s rhyme,
You dance to avoid it every, damned time.
Is it that you just must always have your rainbow in a pipe?
Taking what you can without making it right?
Cravings, grab my throat, go ahead and squeeze,
Craving you and the heady, wet way you tease,
Turn me on and you’ll discover just how blind,
A woman in love can present, every time.
Fine.
Either you love me, standing there all dressed out,
Preferably in little league get-up, ready to pout,
Preferable to the alternative, in a salesman’s suit,
Polyester, with winged tips, briefcase to boot,
Preferring I buy your crackpot potion, polished and slick,
Knowing I’ll do anything for that Unicorn, long and thick.
This world, spinning round and round,
Has a way of throwing things down,
The pure at heart float like cream to the top,
While the sludge settles to the bottom of the pot.
And as another night closes, you out in left field,
I hope your heart’s true beat is someday revealed.
Copyright © Elisa Christensen | Year Posted 2016
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