The Day After Valentine’s
by Faith ShearinLove is cheaper now: fifty cent stuffed animals,
deflated balloons that declare I love you
but not that much. Chocolates melting
in their thin plastic hearts. Holidays are
arbitrary pressure, aisles of red light.
I am sad the day after anything
but expired love is worse than
old Halloween or faded Easter. The bins
of passed over kittens and hollow
chocolate flowers like stubs from a movie
I saw with a boy who forgot my name.
The one who told jokes that weren’t funny,
the one who was handsome but dumb. All that
old love on sale: less valuable but never free.
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