Full moon lingering for five days.
I drift to Friday, clutching and choking
Past Valentine's displays at Ralph's.
And all I see are florals,
Red startling boxes, balloons, bears,
Cinnimon cookies, chocolates,
Ginger and greeting cards.
My box of triscuits rests beneath a paper cupid.
My Hawaiian Punch next to Love Potion Number Nine
(and it's on special)
So sick and silent I murmur my
"Sweet Surrender", langish over "Love Lines".
And wonder why she never picked up the phone.
This haircut changes nothing
This silver ring is stolen.
I hold no hopes as my week ends.
V-Day approaches to a parade of candlelight,
Wine bottle whispers about required romance
While we window shop, waiting for the bomb to drop,
To stir and infect this desert of chance.
9/97
Tom's Notes:
My least favorite time of the year, often echoed by my own brutal sense of "failure" at not having some romantic interest when the world around me seems to be calling for it. Mostly, this is a telling piece, written after Missy canceled a date by simply not picking up the phone to let me know when and where to pick her up. The poem itself isn't very spectacular, save for the redeeming quality of the last two lines, which, I feel, make the entire poem.