Sunday, February 14, 2010

Bob Costas Valentine

Huddled around blue pulsing light,
radiating without warmth,
are skating pairs,

flamboyant clothes accompany
zero missed calls and jumbled silence,
I'm alone,

There is chocolate somewhere
(though I'm allergic)
and the passing scent of melting wax
weighted down by burning wick,
carefully sculpted, adoringly prepared,
these tables across which lovers stare,
are empty but for my glass, coaster-less
and also alone,

a charming reflection of Olympic feats
looped and replayed.

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