Did you give her two dozen red roses

Chocolate strawberries that were hard to find?

Were her coworkers jealous?

Did you write her that line?

Did you tell her she’s the most?

She’s one for all time?

Did you surprise her with candles around her bath just like mine?

Are you waiting in bed as she walks naked through the door?

Are your eyes glued to her soul like I’ve seen them before?

Are you pulling her close? Are you kissing her lips?

Are you felling her heartbeat as mine painfully rips?

When you look in her eyes does it hurt to look away?

Are you connected and bonded will you marry her one day?

Do you long for her touch?

Do you love her as much?

On this special date

I’m just aching to know...

Do you have any regrets?

Will you ever come home?

But my biggest question on Valentines Day

Do you wish she were me?

Or is gone where you’ll stay?

My mother doesn’t like when I wash the dishes,

“Making her floors a mess.”

I have not mastered the containment of water,

have not engineered strict tunnels and pools, or

learned to press it around gently, just right.

I take a bowl in hand,

move around suds and dirt,

hum and sway,

sing a song,

dance,

rinse,

rack,

dance.

There is no room for precision in my body.

I fall down stairs trying to float.

My family no longer asks who fell. Or if I’m okay.

They know I am clumsy

and free

and fine.

"She's so dumb"

"Loser!"

"As if you could taste a sound! "

"Idiot"

"She's just so stupid !"

She walked through the hallway, their voices a flash of red and yellow, their faces the sound of static.

*****

"Can't he sit still ?"

"He keeps fidgeting"

"He never stops moving"

"He's just so stupid !"

He walked down the street, his hyperactive brain catching snippets but not full sentences, content in his own self.

*****

"She looks so sad"

"Can't she smile for once?"

"Leave her alone; she's just stupid"

She glanced about once or twice, then walked on, her brain carrying carrying the heavy burden of her life.

I'll be single for valentines day.

I guess its my own fault.

At least my parents buy me stuff.

At least the Sonic movie comes out on Valentines Day.

That's pretty rad.

in the style of Robert Browning

A soda. There’s a chimpanzee downtown

At Robinson’s, right now, drinking soda,

And all the while reporters scrawl and laugh

To see this monkey—Joe Mendi, it’s named—

With straw in furry hand ten feet from where

I first agreed to do this thing. Is this

What it was for? A headline, scores of them,

To show the circus came to Dayton? I’m

Unsure about it, George, unsure of how

This serves our cause, or Dayton, Tennessee—

Why do you laugh…? Of course I know we’re in

The news! But to what end? Evolution’s name,

And Dayton’s name, are tied now to a chimp

Who sips a soda on a stool, a joke,

A flannel-suited mockery of all

We know is true. …I won’t. My lips remain,

While angry, silent, mum. But answer me:

Am I a puppet, Mr. Rappalyea?

I thought I joined a team that day, but shots

Are fired about my head and I call none.

You set the meeting, asked me there,

Contrived arrest for something I’d not done

And I agreed, to end this backward law.

I will not spill; the story’s safe with me:

“A drugstore argument, a broken law.”

And not at all confederacy, and not

A plan. None will admit the origin.

They can’t—ungilded candor lacks the shine

Demanded by ambition. Robinson

Is slinging drinks all day (his drugstore will

Replace its fountain when all’s said and done,

Just wait), and Bryan wields his Bible, verse

By verse declaiming holy words in town

So people nod “Amen.” And Darrow, he

Spins yarns and charms and holds his court, a king

And clown commingled. George, I’m nauseous. I

Just want to swim. July’s thick heat just grows

Unbearably, and swim I do, but they

(reporters, always more reporters) stand

With notepads. I can have no peace. It’s not

Your name they know, the mastermind behind

The scenes. It’s mine. You choose to speak

But I am forced to hide. I’ll always hide.

You knew that, George, I think… a brand new hire,

Fresh out from university... The books

Will say that Tennessee v. Scopes took place

In 1925. That’s not the end

For Scopes. They print my name, not yours. The case

Soon ends, but I will never teach again.

I turn off grammarian mode when reading Prose posts because A) yinz* are here to write and not get lessons on conventions of the English language, B) nobody likes an English teacher wielding a red pen like a hammer, as we are teachers and not Thor, and C) I have to edit other people's writing for my job, and Prose is for fun. BUT if you read one of my posts and notice an error or typo, I will take it as a personal kindness if you call me on the mistake in the comments.

(An IRL friend texted me this morning to point out that I accidentally typed "absord" instead of "absorb" in my John Cleese post, and it brought me great relief to fix it.)

*I am, at heart, still a Western Pennsylvanian boy.

Thank you for reading, everyone.