and I said... no, no...

I wrote the sonnet about the spring,
and suddenly he, nice,
high flier as gladly,
like super star from the screen.

tshitrt the white put, and he had
trousers, of the same colour.
and hair like the tar.
in the sun a colour gleamed black.

I stood in the door, into him stared.
when he charmingly smiled,
and asked - whether for Madam, will be
willing to buy tickets... to....

farther... I didn't hear.
him star, unfortunately, dim.
my the muse escaped,
and I said... no, no...to him...

we aren't accepting hawkers...

poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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