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Valentine (V)

Dan Pinkerton

Fill me in on the late-night tasks you perform
while the baby sleeps and I lie abed
life-rafted, nearly swamped with worry.
What is that furtive keyboarding, the TV
amplified to muffle momentarily—
what? A phone call? In the morning I find
shreds of this secret business: a pair of stitched
slacks, a souped-up résumé. Why can’t you
lead your life openly, transparently,
an artifact under glass? Don’t cloak
this aspect of yourself beneath a sheet.
You may think you’re preserving it, like
furnishings in an unused house, but others
may mistake it for something that has died.

Dan Pinkerton

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