Poezja

Valentines' Day several days away
it was charming how after a hefty meal
of coq au vin and greasy frites
and wine enough to raddle a pancreas

you shot that loaded straw my way,
me leaving, from your battery behind
the bar. Harmlessly the paper slip fluttered by
filled, assassin, with the breath of your lips

before coasting to rest on the floor--
well before that fine day when Loves
dart sizzles the air, seeking a warm breast
in which to rest and germinate song.

Discretely--though it was late and diners
few, I stooped, picked it up, flattened it out
drew it under my nose as though it were a
rose, a scented billet doux and dropped it

on the bar back to you who merely
bent far, far back and shook and shook
darkly with gallic laughter. The gall!
graceful, turncoat scion of pig-farmers.

Outside, in the cold that turned huffy
exhalations into cirrhus wreathes I smiled
that prank having warmed my bones to the red core.
(We are all just peasants with degrees.)

vowing, the coming holy day night to return
armed with a dozen straws to make of mine enemy
a laughing porcupine, my memory
for these vendettas only long, but that's about all.