Poem By Herbert Nehrlich
It had to come to that.
Me, standing at the door,
a giant pie of blueberries,
from Maine, those are the best,
four speckled roses with two thorns
and hoping with false confidence
that she would like the after shave
picked specially for her.
Old Spice, my girl, and do I smell
the fragrance of not you alone
but that of Ambush, God it's good.
And that was the beginning.