or corndogs on a stick
Talking to the friend
I’m with. Doesn’t have to
be rose petals and candle-lit

dinners for two. I see valentines
as baby cheeks and bubbling
creeks/not champagne. February
doesn’t have flowers growing

in the garden. It has snow angels
on the lawn. A song
bringing back memories. Printed cards
of sentiment written in

print from a stranger, sold
in the dozens and bought by
husbands and boyfriends that
say less do not impress! I can sink

in a hot tub with a glass of wine
and recline on the couch without
a chocolate touching my mouth,
running over my lips, past my

tongue, clinging to my hips.  Ah,
the young are so naive. Don’t
they realize Valentines can be
puppy dogs and babies.

a physical woman
******* point out
hips swing
eyes winking
curled up lips
bright lipstick
the golden highlights
in my hair
dance in the air
ballerina legs
flittering as wings
Ears filled of holes
dangling earrings

The *******
have nursed my babies.
The hips pushed
them out.
The eyes pinned
as they cried all night.
Lips singing lullabies.
Hair matted
in the tiny fists
holding on so tight.
Legs as rubber,
can't move
in morning.
Ears hearing them
sound asleep snoring.
Smile

up to the top
it's gonna spill
over. Even a glass
has boundaries.. It's like

a wallet overstuffed
till it splits the hide,
from all that's stuffed
inside. It rips

the stitches
in your pants as you
do a dance to fit
it in. It falls out

at the slightest
bend. But you can't undo
the past. It's a puddle
of sour milk spilled on the floor.

I’d pair him
with my knife,
cutting back his thick skin.
And slicing him, rolling

my blade over the worm
holes, into a bowl
removing his seeds. Now
seeing his core, tossing him

him in the blender.
Pulverize him till he
was tender. Make him
into a sauce. Add cinnamon

and sugar to sweeten it. And I’d
take a spoon to eaten it!  Or a straw
to swallow the pumped up
marrow.

And so, I can’t say
all was not lost!

looked as a mountain
with hairy legs. I begged it
to stop tramping on my
living room floor. It grew

large as the zit
on my forehead. People are talking
at the sebaceous gland. It has an eye
and a black pupil in

the center. I can pop a zit. But I
can’t pop a shadow. I can squash it
with my foot if I’d moved. I’d have to
walk up to it. And seeing my hands

running down with sweat and the *****
of my feet soaking wet makes my
head swirl as the dust does dancing

on my floor. Is this a dust
bunny? It’s funny I’m scared of
a rolling ball of hair!

I could straighten it
out if it’s crooked. It’d
take a second. Stepping back
I’d see it clearer, if I should

move it left towards
the mirror –
Or right towards the couch. And if
I’m fed up with the thing

I could take it out! Replace it with
a new scene –
a Paris street or hoofs of stallions
cutting through a field running wild. A mother

holding the hand of her child. A table set
with fruit and wine. A man on a boat
with a fish on his line. If I take it
and put it in a room

the sun shines through
the window, it could glow if
it wasn’t in the dark. It’s moveable,
not so like myself. I'm more like dust
settling on the shelf.

Black
Ebony as the keys
on my baby grand.
White is so bland.

I’d like it to snow
Red
Scarlet as my cousin’s head.
Heavy as
the bloodshed from war.
White is just a bore.

I’d like it to snow
Purple
Prince said purple rain –
I’d like to see snow the same.
White is too plain.