would knock
at the door,
and my mother would let him in,
because she was
lonely
and poor,
we'd gather around and stare
at him
in his cheap suit,
and bow tie,
his polished, but worn
shoes.
we'd listen to him go
and on
about the products in his
satchel,
smoothing down his
mustache while
gazing at my
mother's
Sophia Loren
sized cleavage.
but it was no sale
on either end of the deal.
she was just lonely,
and the poor salesman
seemed nice.
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