Breakfast today comes with Spanish homework
and a correction in the Times because
some financial reporter copied from the Wall Street Journal.
There's still snow on the ground,
cheesy cards in mailboxes,
and confetti or ribbon still about
when you look in the right places
(a heart in windowpane fog).
February is filled with things undone,
and now it's half over plus a day.
I wonder how much chocolate was eaten yesterday in America -
the wrappers filling trash bags,
kids with sugar come-downs
still asleep at this hour,
having crashed yesterday afternoon,
from their highs and binges.
What would poor, doomed St. Valentine think?
Would he approve, from his cell?
The day before his execution:
Farewell, from your Valentine, with love,
as if his chains were made of foil and
the bars on his windows sugar-wafer-thin.
Today isn't his day any longer;
he must be lonely in his frozen cemetery.
Go: cover his grave with cut flowers.
CDL
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