Three Poems about Valentine's Day

I started writing poetry when I was in sixth grade. In the intervening years, I've scribbled verse about damn near every woman I ever wanted to go out with. But I've said precious little about St. Valentine's Day itself, most likely because I've had little reason to celebrate it; I usually just take the day off of work and hide until it goes away.

Here are three poems that relate to the holiday in one way or another, whether they're directly about the day or not. I can't say that they're the most cheerful words that've ever dripped out of my blue ballpoint Parker pen. (Yes, I still write these things longhand--got a problem with that?) But I'm hopeful that someday I'll write a flat-out happy poem about V-Day; I imagine that would feel quite nice. In the meantime, however, I'll be under this rock over in the corner if you need me...

ONE
Let's not even pretend that
the approach of The Day of
the Winged Child doesn't
set me off, doesn't get me
pimpled head to clenching toe
and ready to duck and cover.
The telephone will be flipped
off, the answering machine
unplugged, the brilliant box in
the living room unelectrified,
my overhung body unhugged.
Oh fuck, I'm rhyming and
bobbing my head to the beat
of bent meter, to the tickle
of long-haired cats rolling
at my feet whenever I read or
shit, to the attention of dawn
near--anything except what's
going on around me, in me,
through me from the time
the gunshots fade to echoes
on early New Year's Day to
the Ides of February when
the pressure's off again.


TWO
Every morning,
a cardinal
perches atop
the maple tree
beside the alley
beside the
Francisco
CTA station
and lets loose
his call into
the a.m. air.
This morning,
his call was
answered.


THREE
Don't get me started on
why I ignore raw nerve
endings mined all over
my scape which tend

to thrum on chilled
drizzerable mornings
like this, when the why
of the Go-from-Point-A-

to-Pointed-B-to-Pointless-
C just doesn't get to
me, doesn't drop-kick
the faith I had back in

the inchworm days of
playground baseball
afternoons, tunes bounded
off unlevel backyard

patio brick where Dad
raised worms for fishing
and I flattened his empty
Old Milwaukee cans

until my All Stars split
--back before all I had
saved up to offer any
interested in accepting

are organized erections,
puppies in therapy,
cardiac kisses to the
eyes and mind and deep

that unclench emotional
toes, slip on boots made
for talkin' and dance
a slow, close, swaying

fray that takes only
decades to unfurl but,
once the colors are
bright and stiffened in

the northeasterly breeze
a silence thick enough to
spread on crackers will
liquefy and slide through

the grate, end the obnoxious
weight and all will be me,
I will be we, we will be won.
Tip over the glass. It's done.