Here is my Valentine’s Day poem, inspired by my freshly broken arm.
“at least it wasnt your writing hand”,
a sweet lady says to me,
like that means something
in this computerized, digitized,
texting, tweeting, OMG-ing world
of short mesasages composed of
even shorter words.
“i hope it doesn’t hurt too much” says
the partner of my sons dance teacher.
i pause and turn and see he means it.
i wonder how many bones he has broken
while dancing. if he remembers the pain
that radiates outward, infecting each
connected bone like a chain of dominoes
until the pain aches in your jaw and
rings in your head.
“can someone open the door for me?”
i ask, while carrying my son slung
to one side, my fractured arm slung
on the other. a man, who must fashion
himself to be Burt Reynolds, puffs
himself up and blocks the door “how
about if you ask nicely?” he demands.
yes. i should be nicer
on Valentine’s Day.
i should be nicer
i am not.