Thursday now, and clearly I have
done something wrong. You, little hydrangeas ("So blue," do you
remember?), are now the color
of a damp grocery-store circular.
I want a new cart. I want fresh flowers,
a perfect bouquet of wildflowers and a new apartment and a chance
to notice the kitchen is carpeted before
I sign the lease.
It is not your fault, sallow petals, but why
not let go of the stem?
I could cup you in one hand
and we could go out.
Out is good; you want out,
don't you?
Instead we will stare sadly
at the diffuse decay that surrounds us:
the murky water you sleep in,
the ragged skin around my fingernails;
and pray that on Friday
someone comes along
to take us out.
