A POEM FOR VALENTINE’S DAY

This is not a yellow house and these
boots are not made
of rubber, but of some
strange material
I can not name; and my heart
is not an organ. Or okay, it is an organ
in a church. Listen:
someone
is playing it and outside
it is raining; a man has
stepped into the nave. He is holding
his hat in his hands, listening
to the music although
this is not where he should be
and not what he intended
to do. He did not mean to
listen this way. Water drips
from his hat, his coat, his
boots onto the stone
of the floor. It is spring
almost and tiny
impossible things are
budding or intending to. What
is the name of the song? What color
is the house? It is not yellow; but this
singing of water and stones and spring
and boots
is being played
now on my heart.

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