Flowers in Our Neighborhood
John Grey
Soon this flower I picked for you
will be completely dead.
It thought blossoming would be enough.
Didn’t write poetry, didn’t do charity work,
didn’t even hold down a job, accumulate wealth
to pass on to its heirs.
Soon this flower will pack in all its miracles,
cauterize its memories, its dreams.
It’ll wither, its version of crying out.
It’ll fade, its way of getting sympathy.
No more emblem of our love,
or envy of the pots and pans,
cereal boxes,
as it lauded from the kitchen table.
Soon this flower will succumb on the outside
to what it feels on the inside.
It’ll be as if it never was a flower.
Meanwhile, the boy next door,
garage closed tight, starts the car,
and blooms.
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