A love poem

Keith always tells me I'm not romantic.

Every Valentine's Day he gives me a beautiful homemade card with a carefully selected love poem. And, yes, it's true, most Valentine's Days I come up with nothing. But the thing is, I always intend to. I always have plans. They just never quite work.

Like this year. Despite my truly awesome head cold, I leave work and stop by the funky little shop on Government Street that has great cards. But, go figure, this year the selection isn't so hot. OK. I will make this work. So after about 30 minutes of reading every card on offer and deliberating with great care, I choose one--it's good, it's fine, and I know how to spice it up--and then I discover I have no cash. And no, they won't take a credit card.

I go home. Nose is too runny, chest is too congested, head is too achey, cough is too racking to return to the damn shop. No, I will write a poem. I will make my own card.

Well, it never got onto a card. But here's the poem:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm coughing up loogies,
But I still love you.

You're the chicken bone for my hungry dog,
the litter for my kitty.
You say that you still want me
Even when I'm feeling shitty.

You're the saline in my Neti pot,
the Kleenex for my nose,
the compress for my feverish head--
that's what love is, I suppose.

Ok. Not a Shakespearean sonnet. But don't tell me I'm not romantic.