The Seventh of May

Don’t ask me why I always remember
that this is Jan’s birthday. We knew
each other for roughly six weeks, years ago,
when we and everything around us were
not of this world (still 20th century.)
I compared her eyes with muscatel
after we’d spent a Sunday afternoon
hitting Napa wineries in her Toyota,
picnic packed and all eyes but ours locked out.

She adored Earl Klugh and Michael Franks,
And her walls were plastered with platitudes
in blazing color. She called them her
“positive attitude posters.” I kissed her
and said it was sweet, but privately noted
that a weekend at her apartment was like
two days locked in a “Hello Kitty” store.
(She intuited that, and didn’t like it at all.)

Our first night together was Valentine’s Day.
By her 28th birthday that spring, I was gone,
sent packing. But the date stays with me.
I don’t need to wonder if she’s happy.
She had herself programmed for that
like a smart bomb with data punched in
to whack a chemical plant. No, whatever
else, I’m sure Jan found her target
with a smile, in no doubt and right on time.