Valentine (II)Dan Pinkerton
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?
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