Valentine's Daydream

A Poem From 02/13/2006

Valentine's Daydream
02/13/2006
by David C. Roberson

The town was a-buzz
with noise and with fuss.
Heart-shaped balloons
filled every city bus.
Men’s arms filled
with some pink or red stuff
that secretly said,
“enjoy your extra sit-ups.”

I was around,
but not for an evening gown,
not for anything
that would help me go down
or get down
or throw down
or ho-down.

No kind of candy
in soft, crumpled paper,
no diamonds, no treasure
to ensure pleasures for later.

No, I scrounged around
in a thrift market fair
with dust in my lungs
and grease in my hair,
looking for things to distract
from frilly underwear
or those things that ensnare you
in mere moments to spare.

I looked over the place—
the cluttered, hot space—
full of snoozing old-timers
who’d ’bout lost their race.
Folks just like me,
buying other people’s waste:
trinkets and blankets
and relics of faith.

Old family Bibles,
sneakers without laces,
heirlooms and push-brooms
and swords in glass cases.

And the world ran outside
with nothing to hide,
screaming of dinners
and romance
and candles to light,
and single white roses
or dozens of red,
and petals on the floor
that lead to the bed.

And all the young women
have it stuck in their heads
from music and TV
and things that they’ve read.
And the men stand around
in grocery store lines,
with flower seed packs
and last-minute wines.

But none of them seem
to suspect oddity—
that they’re all being led
by the piper’s quick beat,
that soft melody
that haunts you in your sleep,
tells you sweet things mean less
on other days of the week.
It’s this one especially
where emotions run deep.

But maybe I read
too much subterfuge in it—
the way we’ve been pulled in
and programmed
by media magnates.
And Walmart’s been selling
since Christmas left town
the candies and bling.
And the brainwashing clowns
talk to me and to you
about the special ones in our lives—

You love them,
so you better buy, buy, buy.

And I ain’t talking about
no boy band song
that faded away
when the new fad came on.
No, I’m talking about the shell of a wallet
that once had insides
but now all of it’s gone.

And no one much says
it’s a damn sad example:
the people who shuffle
and side-step and trample
for a cardboard shape
that’s supposed to look like
that thing in their chest
that’s in shambles.

But maybe I’m being too harsh.
Maybe this whole rant
has seemed like a farce.
I’m imagining things
because my loneliness stings,
and I have no one
at home waiting for me
to bring them nice things.

So I make fun of those
who have what I don’t,
and I drift off to sea,
wishing I was aboard
their bright boat—
but I’m only in a life raft,
barely afloat.

“Excuse me, sir,”
said a white-haired old temptress,
“Happy Valentine’s Day—
have you got you a mistress?”

I shook my head no.
She gave me a smile.
I said,
“I’ve always liked older women!
We can rap for a while!”

She frowned with a shake.
Said, “You’ve made a mistake—
I was selling these bracelets,
thought you’d like to partake.”

I grimaced and spake,
“What do you take me for?
Some foolish man-ape,
scribbling love notes to wenches
while I wait for my fate?

Do I look to you like St. Valentine,
rotting away with death on his mind?
What the hell makes you think
that I’d be a martyr?
I thought you a cougar—
but all you wanted was barter!”

She ran like the wind—
much better than I could—
cursing and flailing
as I calmly stood.

And then a wild thought
to my head did so spring:
a girl from my class
with no boyfriend, I think.

I could buy her a card
and some candy, earrings,
and write her a song
full of sweet, girly things,
and sing it
and buy her
a ten-dollar dinner—

What could it hurt?
Like Ed once proclaimed,
I could be a winner!

So what if the whole thing
turned out to be a disaster?
I’d hardly consider it
a Valentine’s Day Massacre.

The worst that could happen
is I’d get a bit fatter,
and while I was doing that
I could woo, I could flatter,
and maybe she’d flatter me
in much the same way,
and we’d grow old together.

Then she’d come to my grave
and drop some flowers off
on Valentine’s Day,
make sure the grass didn’t fade
over the dirt where I lay,
then she’d hobble on home
to her shiny estate
and oil up the pool boy,
as I spun in my grave!

As I endured the sharp sting,
in heaven I’d cry—

“Lord, smiteth this woman!
She’s happy I died!
Lord, please strike her down!
This betrayal confounds!
Good God Almighty,
this bag gets around!”

And then God would laugh
or smile and just shrug,
sayin’,
“Aw, man, what’s wrong?
Do you, like, need a hug?”

Suddenly I’d realize
it’s not God I’m seein’—
lo and behold,
it’s Jerry Garcia.

But I ain’t among them,
the Grateful of the Dead,
not with my woman
and the pool boy
gettin’ down in my bed.

Then Jerry reminds me,
“It’s totally kosher—
you said ’til death do you part.
Your marriage is over.
Your patriarchal bullshit’s
purpose is gone.
Like your wife has clearly done,
it’s time to move on.”

So I decide to pull out
of my Valentine’s daydream,
back to the thrift store
with the baubles and things,
thank God and Jerry
that I ain’t yet entangled,
baste myself in the warmth
of being young,
and single.

Note: the above picture was inspired by the photography of Laura Ockel