By Charles M. Sumid Copyright © 2025 Written 2016

My Funny Valentine again.
Someone’s uncle doing Reagan.
Cake reduced to crumbs,
children gone,
adults pretending they remember
how to stay up past ten-thirty.
The host laughs one beat too long.
Ice melts faster than drinks.
The room shifts.
She’s already moving.
The wife glances at the kitchen.
His shoulders sag.
Happiness performed too long.
“Wonderful evening,” she says.
A hand on his elbow—
warmth without obligation.
Leaving now is mercy:
the gift of ending
before kindness turns to duty.
She’s learned the balance—
never first, never last,
but when talk begins to loop,
stories lose light.
Purse gathered.
Glass down.
A cue others follow.
Two guests check their phones.
The spell breaks kindly.
Streetlights turn sidewalk to stage.
Her mother stayed too long.
She learned the opposite.
Empty streets.
Green lights.
The city glides.
At home, tea.
Text sent:
Lovely evening. Thank you.
Eight minutes later:
So glad you came.
You make things feel complete.