... (XVI)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oR1nf9NUlpY&ab_channel=PeriecosBrech%C3%B3

.

.

.

I

.

.

We’ve three hundred and sixty-four days

For love songs, for love poems -

For acts of romance, meaningful gestures

Or the subtle overtures, cast, to demonstrate our care. 

.

This day, always this day …

.

You don’t need a holiday, to solidify a relationship.

Hell, if all it took was a holiday, how solid 

Would the relationship really be,

Anyways?

.

.

.

II

.

.

Bill thought about this, determinately, 

As if it was an algebraic equation -

As if only he could just get X 

Onto the same side as Y, somehow, 

.

It might result in a rationally equitable solution.

.

.

.

III

.

.

He was in line at a local grocer - the beeping of the till

Echoing, the furrowing of his brow -

And to his immediate front, as with his immediate back,

There stood another man, and another man, and another ...

.

And Christ, Bill realized:

All of them were wearing flannel, 

All of them had working-class watches

And all of them were holding flowers.

.

.

.

IV

.

.

Bill looked at the assemblage, held, 

By the man that'd stood behind him.

.

Nice, he hadn't picked out any roses.

.

Roses were easy;

Roses were just subscribing 

To yet another set

Of culturally predetermined hegemonies.

.

Christmas trees were like roses, Bill thought to himself.

.

Diamonds were like roses;

Bachelorette parties were like roses;

F*****g 

Weddings, they were exactly like roses.

.

.

.

V

.

.

Valentines ...

.

.

As Bill paid for his tulips, 

He returned his attention 

To the unfinished algebra equation ...

.

And sweat rolled, unwarranted, 

Beneath the starched, inlaid hem 

That'd wrapped itself, meticulously, 

Around the circular length of his collar.

.

.

.