February 12, Saturday Night

Rare night out, and we’re Valentining it up.
Brandishing jellied candy, I gave my sweetheart
a sweet heart. We encountered a sweathog
along the walking path that led to the heart
of our suburb’s quiet downtown. (Or as we thought
of it, “downtown.”) The frijoles tasted super,
as did the salsa at the small Mexican restaurant—
but poor, vexed us! The daddy-daughter dance
next door grew out of control. Turned to a slaughter.
Yet you remained cinammony, like horchata.
Ever steadfast, yes, and tasty like horchata.

Brett Foster's writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Image, Kenyon Review, Poetry East, and Raritan. His first book of poems will be published with Northwestern University Press.