"Valentine"

In Manhattan, after wit and spar, after

the dog stops being a joke, for a moment

everyone shuts up and it's the bridge

that holds us suspended. For a moment,

nothing is funny or aslant. If there is rain

falling on the woman's hair, the man's

coat, it isn't narrative or metaphor.

Everyone is tired and thinking of a last

drink and bed. It is the dog who is certain

of loneliness, who follows the street's perfume

,taking no one to his undiminished heart.

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Copyright © 2011 Laurie Lamon All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission