This Sweet Work’s Worth

It’s coming again, like some slouching beast.

I see all the drooling signs in the stores,

the ones that make me howl out my soul against deaf heaven.

The candy in the red boxes, all those happy hearts, my least favorite,

some neon sign blasting with battlefield boomings

breaking on me a bitter cold sweat in the wee hours,

some pulsing arrow flashing, not Cupid’s sadly,

piercing the air repeatedly, down, and down, and down

before splitting my skull again, letting in the scent

of romance and perfume carried from someone else’s airspace.

Once again, my life’s unlike a box of chocolates, except the one

ungiven once, stale for how many years now I can’t count

high enough since my last love lobotomy,

all my fingers and toes cramped and curled

from abstruce computation, right before amputation,

the most untender cut of all, annually administered.

From the steaming wound, pull out a heart

still beating but just, hold it carefully in your hands.

Ah, drop it. Yup. Less than a month. Great news.

I get to buy all the discounted candy on the 15th.

Give it to myself. Self-love? Hardly that. Get fat.

Paint a picture perfect for attracting Ms. Right.

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