If I were a simple love poem
I’d, first of all, want to rhyme,
then, be flawless and impeccable
in meter and time,
but since life is not perfect,
nor is this holiday poem,
I’ll continue in free-verse (maybe)
to a chorus of stifled groans.

I.
If I were a silly love poem,
I’d toss the rhyme and serve you my heart*
on a bed of mixed greens.
Grain-free. Gluten-free. Nut-free (you be the judge of that).

*non-plant based, packaged in a facility where meat is present

II.
If I were a more serious love poem,
every single letter here would turn to tears,
leaving them to wash a headstone,
exposing the dead-pan humor of Richard “Rick” Bandoliers:

“I’m still here in body,
although by now, there can’t be much left,
and my spirit, is gone now too,
a fact, to which, I attest
UNLESS
You close your eyes now
and smell my breath upon the breeze
which conjures up
a tickle in your throat
that explodes
into a sneeze.”

(Rick always knew how to make me laugh,
but I never thought he’d get a chuckle
with goosebumps triggered by a draft,
or the scent of honeysuckle.)

III.
Now, if Rick’s epitaph were a love poem,
Someone would surely dance
upon his grave,
declaring their endless love for him
twirling
on the gusting wind’s blustering waves.

IV.
If I were a legitimate love poem,
I’d list the many ways
I’d pass the time until the moment
I’d meet real poets on judgement day
– Brown, Neruda, Shakespeare, Keats –
– Edna St. Vincent Millay –
Might I want to keep them at bay?
Or myself from running away?
Or join in the welcoming fray?
Wait!
On one hopeful note,
I could clear my throat
and ask,

“What makes a good love poem, anyway?”

❤ Happy Valentine’s Day ❤