Frocked fathers and wimpled sisters
bless even the non-celibate on this day.
Can it be true some have no valentine
to hug and mug (sweetly if you please)
on February 14? How can that be?
So many seek and offer loving and love
that every socket should have its plug.
Many men mumble or might mutter, but
store-bought cards proffer fair words.
Twelve foreign-grown roses with another
twelve chocolates on wee paper cups
imply more than most of us can voice.
Some celebrate. Others cele-bray.
“Look at me. I’m looking at you.”
The relic skull of martyr Valentine
gapes from eyeless sockets on a shelf
down the left aisle of Rome’s basilica
di Santa Maria in Cosmedin, framed
in gold replete with a crown of flowers.
No lips, no eyes remain to kiss or stare.
Let us rename this St. Violin Tunes Day,
that time when sappy strings vibrate
to sounds of longing, love and lust.
Feel no shame. Lewdly feed her candies.
Kiss. Caress. Dance. Let the skull look.
Michael Ball scrambled from daily and weekly papers through business and technical pubs. Satisfaction and feeling like a writer came through blogging and podcasting, mostly political. Born in OK and raised in rural WV, he became more citified in Manhattan and Boston. He joined the Hyde Park Poets Workshop two years ago, and will never again write a manual or help system. He has moderate success placing poems in print and online.