You want flowers; I understand that flowers are grand.

They tend to pretty up a gentleman caller's left hand.

They don't stand in for love but they symbolize aptly.

Grab a handful of blossoms as I pass by the crab tree,

hand these to the recipient of my affections,

urge they float in a crystal bowl (which I don't provide). The misdirections

of the close magic practitioner

are like Bruce Wayne's winking subterfuge with the commissioner

as compared to my ability

to convince you that the mints you had, fragility

of wafer thinness established, were gourmet,

palmed though they were from the bulk bin at Safeway.

Hey! You want better? You better want what you need,

not too much in excess of that lest you flaunt with your greed.

“I want to be in love at any price.”

Who would seek a dozen roses when a posy would suffice?


I'll read you poetry, I'll tell you what I know to be true,

I'll make a sentimental observation about the moon,

I'll kiss you so that you could think that kisses are sublime,

but I won't spend a penny

‘cause all that you're worth is my time.


And I don't mean to bother my pretty head with the math

but I've yet to spend a nickel and I'm pretty good with the past.

I'm pretty solid on the figures. They add up:

curvature never to enter into the graph of the ones that had love.

An ever-rising number of ‘em! Oh but you're final.

Take the needle off the record, take the finger off the vinyl.

I'll assign all necessary function to the heart.

Don't know the economy of the energy that's involved but it's apart

from the pocketbook and the book-keeping thereof.

That ledger's glued together; to open up's very rough,

very difficult, barely worth the effort.

You wonder when we're going to Peru again? Never.

Sever that fantasy from out your conscious mind

‘less you're springing for the cab ride down (then that's just fine).

I don't offer brimming coffers on the cost of your disgrace.

I can tender sweet nothings, come on over to my place.


We write rhymes when you meet us on the shores of the Seine.

You and we, in between us there's a gathering refrain:

“cheapskates,” what you call us in those moments of disdain,

and it don't seem to me we're entitled to the name.

Cheap-what?! Dirty word for such a generous soul

who could lavish affection without any venerous goal

or who, with such a goal in mind, could apprehend

any climax in the offing so as not to precede a friend.

And indeed the end of the world could be upon us:

it could be you and me blazingly enough to astonish

all onlookers with the glory of our passion.

I know my sentimental earnestness is not so much in fashion

but I keep it ‘round the house; some day you'll think it's vintage

instead of deeming it narcotic (as is Olive's take on spinach).

I'm going to finish what I started with you, this you can expect.

And I'll call it never-ending when I call you up collect.