Driving to Providence sounds too mundane,
evoking clipped-winged angels feeding tickets through turnstiles.

I philosophize as I fill my tank.
I wonder which of these words will be the first to be forgotten.

At the gas station register waits Saint Peter;
he frowns at my Red Bull, marks his ledger.
declares,

“here is the punishment humanity deserves
for intimating hints of heaven on Earth:
disappointment in dissonance
when cities fail to embody their namesakes.”

Walking through Providence (better, better),
the late winter wind reddens my skin.
I swear I was promised I’d need no jacket,
yet cannot recall the prophet — perhaps I imagined.

I duck into a cafe for temporary salvation.
Clipped-winged angels serve me coffee and doughnuts;
the lemon-matcha old-fashioned is a revelation.
All, forever, for now, is forgiven.

It does not take a poet to explain — especially,
on this the day of flowers and chocolates —
love is momentous.

(The world groans its agreement
and carries on.)

What this poet wrote and meant, emphatically:
love is momentum.
Thoughtless indifference
until a gentle slope gives speed
to what internal fixtures we forgot may move.

If the magazine could please republish this less-trite truism,
I am sure your readers would rejoice in its novelty.
Nod over their coffees
at their loves, growing, even now, in force
or slowing,
equally
imperceptibly,
until we are alone
in the resultant stillness
of erstwhile impetus.