(In response to the satirical poem entitled "VALENTINE?" by James A. Galgano.)
But he was mine, she said. He said he was mine alone.
Between the poet with his lengthy sonnets to Euphrosine
And he who laments of lost love, which of them know
The woman beyond the muse? And when the rose withers
And falls to dust, and when memory fails, was the rose
Never a rose?
Don't you trust me? he said, eyes reflecting
The warm glow of candlelight over wine.
I've never lied to you; I've always loved you,
But she's too busy
Cutting her filet and dreaming of better times -
Romantic dinners that did not involve hot stoves
Or grumpy husbands, and evenings of dancing,
Flowers, diamonds, and new dresses.
So what if she was young once, and she left
The young boy with his heart full of emotion
For the shinier gentleman with the smile
And such a way with words!
So what if he'd really meant those three little words,
At the time,
When her figure was younger, her eyes brighter,
Her skin softer?
And in her room a young girl cries,
A boy apologises,
And she cradles the phone like the fragile
Child of their love.
This time it'll be better. This time he means it, she says.
This time I'll do things right. This time I won't repeat
The same mistakes, he says.
I'd rather he was my bad boy than in the arms of
Some other girl.
But somewhere else a couple laughs over spaghetti,
Coke, and a TV show. He jokes about the actress,
She criticises his taste and steals the remote.
What do they care about roses?