Amour Propre Massacred
or
Trust Me, Sweetie -- That Flood You See Is the Harbinger of Doom
"Love's labor is lost on most bums."
-- a pair of sore knees
* * *
My valentine yet brings the dozen roses every year,
gives yet the box of chocolates plus the rainbow Hallmark card,
appears beneath the balcony yet donned the balladeer,
recites the sugar'd sonnets sweet yet scribbled by "The Bard,"
reserves the Lincoln limousine yet with the new-car smell,
the table on the terrace orders yet at Jean-Pierre's,
requests the moonlight yet perform Boléro by Ravel,
beyond the spheres yet sweeps romance up sweeps of starlit stairs,
secures the suite of sable skies yet o'er the coast of pearls,
Armand de Brignac Rose yet pours beneath the tipsy sea,
to yet the True Love easy to the helm the sail unfurls,
and pirates yet the jewel deep inside the hull of me --
aside, of course, from buying yet the cheap, behemoth brush,
with which I yet here scrub the head the pirate fails to flush.
* * *
a dedication of Respect
for
the True Romeo who does johns
a revolving helios sonnet shakespearean satire menippean on
the routine romance
february, 2023 -- yet wishing on Valentine's Day 1929
I'd been in Chicago
in the wrong place
at the wrong time
Copyright © James Starkey Iii | Year Posted 2023
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