I’m sitting at a picnic table
in the lawn and garden section.
Three salesmen are watching me closely.
They’re clustered together at the end of the aisle,
whispering nervously amongst themselves,
probably because I have a pen and notebook,
which means that I was sent
from the corporate headquarters to file a report.
They have no idea I’m writing a love letter.
Who’d ever write a love letter
on the third floor of Sears?
I’m the only one crazy enough to do that.
You’re the only one crazy enough
to stick by the side of an unemployed cellist.
Some day it will all pay off.
Those poor salesmen.
They can’t take their eyes off me,
especially the guy with thick glasses,
who hasn’t sold a lawnmower in two weeks.
He is worried about getting laid off.
Whenever I glance up at him he flashes a big smile.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings me a cup of coffee.
Or maybe even a donut.
After all, I’m the most powerful man in Sears.
And the most in love.