Annually,
you silently loathe it. I know this.
You’ll search for us in an aisle besieged with
fifty shades of pink and red that replaced the
red and green 75%-off leftovers.
You’ll remain mute while making your
symbolic selections. Standing, waiting, sighing
behind lines of anxiety laced testosterone
in the twelfth hour
on the fourteenth day
of the second month:
compensation for procrastinating –
your engaging in the
pretentiousness of it all.
Remember, you laughed about it,
you and your boys, two weeks earlier
between the three-layer dip,
tortilla chips, pizza, and Bud Light.
Before halftime with Katy and Missy,
one boasted about reservations,
filet mignon, buttery lobster, and lava cake.
After the commercial with Katie and Bryant,
but well before that
idiotic pass at second and goal,
another bragged on ruby petals,
fuzzy bears, and exotic truffles
he’d send to her job
to make her associates envious.
Impressed with their plans,
you’d search for us amongst their devices,
forgetting that flavor lasts a moment,
parched stems aren’t pretty, and
deliveries are sometimes lost.
Knowing we are not there,
you’d choose to follow them anyway,
and then wonder
if you made the right choice.
With pulse in throat, you’d present
quid pro quo: a Valentine
with the hope that
my thighs would spread open wide
to offer a Thanksgiving and a Christmas.
Then I’d say, “thank you
for your selection. But had you asked me,
I would have informed you that
your everyday is where we are.
Had you asked me,
I would’ve told you that
your foreplay –
your little notes in the morning,
texts throughout the day, and
words whispered in the dark
fondle and kiss
my metaphysical
in a way that a lifetime of
Hallmark greetings never could.
Had you asked me,
I would have told you that
my need to belong collapses underneath
the weight of you.
Your heaviness, build, id, ego, and pneuma,
penetrates,
thrusts,
soothes, and
satisfies my aching want.
Had you asked me,
my answer would’ve caused you to
you gloat to your boys about
not having to buy fragrances or chocolates.
The sweet I desire in my mouth can’t be
purchased at a store, because yours is
simply not for sale.
It’s already mine.
Even now,
as I speak these words,
you’re wondering if this is a trick,
a reverse psychology of some sort.
Breathe, relax, and smile.
Your everyday is enough.
You are exempt.
But if you must do it…
search for us in an aisle besieged with
fifty shades of pink and red that replaced the
red and green 75%-off leftovers,
smile and brag while making your
symbolic selection:
a red ribbon.
Stand, wait, sigh
behind lines of anxiety laced testosterone
in the twelfth hour
on the fourteenth day
of the second month,
you sexy procrastinator.
When you get home,
tie that red ribbon on your wherever. Take a seat.
Let me properly thank you,
because your everyday is enough.
