Poetry

I UNDERSTAND IT’S OVERTURE

Having from scratch to cultivate a mild

and sentimental heart, a mind not made

from crystal, sleet, and ice, I am afraid

I cannot give you drama, cherub child.

I know you long for fanfare and the drum;

I understand it’s overture you crave

and accent, know the “where” from which you come:

Sentiment keeps its right foot in the grave

where I’m concerned, who do not care for rings,

nor perfumes, nor bouquets, nor dress and drape;

who give rare thought to women, song, and wine.

My thought is on lackluster other things,

entrusting you with ferment of the grape,

theatrics, magic, and Saint Valentine.