Here are some poems for Valentine’s Day. They were culled from previous collections and were written when I was still single and living in Phoenix, Arizona. I added some photos I took during that time period (1998-2006).

Solo V-Day

There is no love without another,
no romance when no companion is present.
The self cannot survive on its own.
Affection needs an outlet,
a target to these romantic thoughts.
And happiness demands reciprocation,
because desire withers when forced to remain inside,
and love has no point when Cupid’s bow fails to strike.

An Involuntary Condition

Here’s to all those whose
birthday wishes never came true—
for the unloved, unlucky and desperate,
for the manic and passive,
for the childless Demeter searching
in vain for her unborn Persephone,
for the clones of Sisyphus rolling
the stones of their loneliness,
groaning under the weight,
straining in the face of repeated defeat.
For the wedding days when
you will not stand upon the altar,
for the groves of family trees
shriveled and lacking offspring.
For all the men and women
who hate being single
and rebel against it every day,
but can do nothing to prevent
becoming orphans in their adulthood.

Nightingale

I have worshipped at the
altar of loneliness for far too long.
I need a love intervention—
a woman, an angel, a friend,
a nightingale to swoop in on my life
and replace the discordant, recurring song.

Roommates

My pursuit of a union has ended,
And the desire to keep looking is gone,
Dissolved like Kool-Aid
Crystals in cold water.
I no longer fear the inevitable,
Because it already resides here.
I accept the reality of my adult life:
Loneliness is my only mate,
A discarnate presence
Occupying my twin bed at night.

Overnight Stay

The unattached go unnoticed
in hotel bars and lobbies,
watching couples and
overhearing conversations.
They retreat to their rooms
and fall asleep to the
sound of cable television,
turning up the volume
before drifting off
in order to shut out
the animal noises of
the man and woman
enjoying themselves
in the adjacent room—
while being reminded again
that others are not
spending the night alone.

Saturday Night at the Cinema

Couples hurry down the aisle
of a movie theater,
finding seats as the house lights dim
and the previews start.

Locked in a state of solitude,
I gaze at them with envy.
For I remain alone . . .
a single ticket purchased,
no fingers entwined in a warm lap,
no shared overpriced soda or tub of popcorn,
no arm around her shoulder,
pushing aside her long brown hair.

But I am able to forget my life
while the sprockets are engaged.
The shuttering picture seduces me again,
and I become numb to everything—
until the last frame passes,
when knowledge of my isolation
rumbles like a stagecoach procession
across the Arizona desert
in a John Ford Western.

Then the film noir,
black and white feeling returns.
And as the end credits roll,
I stand up and flee
the darkness of the theater,
stepping into the artificial light
of the shopping mall parking lot.

Left-Hand Fetish

With regard to women,
I am obsessed with one body part.
If I spot a woman I like
seated in a crowded café,
or walking through an airport,
my eyes travel directly
to the top of her left hand.
I need to know right away:
Does she wear an engagement ring
or wedding band?
Is she free to love me,
if she so chooses?
Or is she already partnered
with another man?

The Look

I noticed that look—
that look that
she was looking
at him instead of me.

I was neither cast aside,
nor dismissed outright,
but much worse—
completely overlooked.

Hurtful Words

The voice of a woman
I admire from afar
pierces the afternoon air.
Her voice mingles
with other sounds
inside the lobby
of the Phoenix Art Museum
on a Saturday in February.
The woman does not
intend to be cruel.
Yet she crushes my heart,
dispersing romantic hope,
when she delivers
a simple sentence,
beginning with the words:
“My boyfriend is . . .”
She proceeds to tell a co-worker
about her weekend plans,
but I stop listening,
as I realize
there’s no point
to knowing more.