Fresh Love

Or, to be accurate, the first draft of another love poem:

Love Poem #4
My friends asked me: how much does that special smile
of yours cost? I'll warn you now it isn't cheap:

a trinket stacked in piles on shelves in giftshops
trading holiday junk. You cannot wipe my palms

with cash and watch it strut its muscly tricks
across my face, nor will goods-in-kind bag you

that smile. For a drink you'll get a grin, and dinner
will pack a smirk into your greycoil memory. But

my smile - my honest sweat-on-face with blushing grace
stretch of lips and crowfeet lines towards my ears -

deserves a price that only you can pay, my love, when
you look at me with lids half-drawn across your eyes.