Sonnets scribed throughout the ages
& verses penned on crumpled pages
declare the vagaries of the heart—
but we who write, how do we start
to shape those things into a line?
Could Robbin be my Valentine?
A catch-all, cure-all phrase at best,
a store-bought, hard-fought way to test
not only revenue from emotion,
or pocket change to renew devotion—
but a day for shy to offer sign,
ask: would you be my Valentine?
“What the hell’s it mean?” I pray.
Does it include what I want to say?
Or imitate the horndog’s sound,
or a spot for dreams to pulse and pound
or become a word to brand as “mine”?
“Now baby you’re my Valentine?”
Or a poet’s time to wax eternal
grace angelic drawn to abnormal
metamorphic gross proportions,
or worse yet, shallow contortions
comfort claims to be divine—
who’d really want a Valentine?
Yet through it all, you have acquired
my great respect. I have admired
the human being I know as you,
I know as nothing less than true—
& here I am at the bottom line:
would you be my Valentine?
I found this card in its original envelope on my desk this morning, postmarked February 13, 1995. Good friends for several years, I took a chance to declare an interest beyond friendship that Robbin confesses unsettled her at the time. Instead of a hallmark, it reads: ‘HOMEMADE IN A HELLUVA HURRY’.
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, ROBBIN!!