Cambridge, Valentine’s Day, 1999

She caught my eye as I walked briskly through crisp, night air.
She moved and I saw her, lying on the cold, slick, bricks
bundled in a greasy sleeping bag
mousy, matted hair shoved up into a blue, knit hat
the kind boys wear over their baseball caps.

I saw her eyes squeezed shut shedding
wind tears into the cross-hatched crows feet in their corners
running down street smudged cheeks toward her ears.

She must be cold I thought as I stood dumbly
while all around lovers scurried carrying cardboard boxes
full of long stemmed roses
dressed to go dancing in slip-thick dresses
accompanying tuxedos-coated, shielding from the night wind.

She had boxes but brown cardboard folded beneath
her bulky body — empty
not full of flowers
just supporting, protecting, comforting her like a hug.

I wondered if I should get a blanket, or a cop.
Maybe cover her some more
when something jerked me awake.
Something, someone, she, waved me away.
She looked up pale, grey eyes almost white
blurred with tears from the wind?

She turned her back to me snuggling deeper down
into her bag, into the boxes away from me.
Leaving her, all I could see were lovers walking hand-in-hand
holding white cardboard boxes full of promises
kissing, fondling hurrying past to
warm couches, beds and each other’s arms on Valentine’s Night.