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very little love
In Keyport, off the Raritan Bay,
I see Mexicans on the hill frozen in wait of warmer days.
Ahyee! Muy Frio!
Then up the hill at a new Irish pub.
I see red faced bar flies, in the attack of their well worn elbows.
It doesn’t matter who or where they are,
they are all the same.
Very little here anymore this sleepy little burg,
very little shame
in the shadow of the city.
Imagery of heroes.
Some Mayor in a criminal game.
Singing like Sopranos.
Proud being fathers,
as they lurch all the way home.
Their women cry like starved myths dying for Cupids love.
But conflicted in their need for greed, they just all stick around.
Therefore, they promenade in this state of denial, each jealous of each other's vines.
Their sons and daughters grow dangerously beautiful.
In the middle of February, cold with
very little love
for me or St Valentine.
