Valentine (II)

You’ve signed up to swap, next Tuesday,
Valentine spit with some plasticized
stand-in. (I can’t believe “CPR
dummy” still PC—faux-human, maybe?
Victim facsimile?) Anyhow, how
can I kiss you knowing that yours and
the rummy’s lips have locked in the overlit
junior high algebra classroom—this
as man-hating Miss Olmstead overbears?
You claim a need to deliver the breath
of life, but already you’ve rescued me;
who else must you revivify? How are we
to meet in embrace when the fragrance
of pliant rubber still clings to your clothes?