Mythical Pink

Every year
round about Valentine's
the library girl
teases the braids from her hair
puts on a shorter skirt
and I dream she forgets to wear
panties

All doe-eyed restless
in a million dollar
Hallmark fantasy
she sits crossing
and uncrossing her legs
staring towards the door
studying the same page
over and over
silently reciting
the lamest magic spell
from a book with a shiny pink cover
that will somehow bless the sky
to rain bouquets and candy
and bring her just one
well-read man
who can turn up the frown lines
and wipe away a soulful tear

After almost an hour
my concentration savagely massacred
by a tortured imagination
I'm reduced to a desperate form
of unaccustomed bravery
and can stand it no more

I get up
and walk slowly
towards her desk
each step measured with purpose
rehearsing the words
carefully in my head
I shall tell her
very quietly
so as not to get myself barred

No offense meant, Miss  
but this ain't the meat market
I come here to read
mostly the news and to get warm
The only pink
I may not be allergic to
might reside inside
panties and bras
but it's not dignified
for a person in your position
to advertise themselves so publicly
especially
at such an awkward time of year
at least for those of us
still able to remember
our history correctly

Her heavy rimmed glasses
slip down
halfway past the dainty freckles on her nose
and she seems utterly bemused
as I try my best
to explain how each February
the Romans
dutifully flogged their women
with hides soaked in sacrificial blood
to increase fertility
then chose their partners in a lottery
and that no-one of sane mind
would ever dream of sending a card

But I never got to say
after I accidentally lost my balance
stumbled
and buried my face in her breasts
how just thinking about
that lemon suck look in her eyes
would make any guy's pistol
harder than the pinkest bullet
whether she was wearing panties
or even nothing at all--
not before security
escorted me
rather rudely
beyond the door