A Valentine Poem

Valentine.

I haven’t found my Valentine.
I married, yes, and I married for love
but the Valentine of the cards will never be.
No matter the nights skin-to-skin,
toe-to-stump, hand to belly fat,
cheek to chin, the cologned whiskers
tickling my neck, the tongued
lovelies sending me skyward.
No matter the quiet solitary moments
you give me by disappearing and
taking the children with you,
the slowly blossoming hours
in which I wander, work, write.
No matter the solidity of your presence
the unstated, loyal warm mass
of your strength buoying me through.
All of these things I love about you.
But they are not a Valentine.
All of the things I love about you are real.
Being real, they are soiled and travel-stained
with the journey of life and all its mishaps,
all its passions, all its lost tempers,
the messes and scattered debris of days.
A Valentine does not live.  A Valentine
sits statically through days, behind the glass of
the shadowbox of life, a muscular silhouette
dipped in chocolate, starched lace and
Heart-shaped paperboard.
You are not my Valentine
But something warmer.