The sequel to busy
is stone cold dead.
I learn this as you hand me
two dozen red roses
after a long day’s work.
You wear a tired smile,
baby on one arm,
bags on the other,
a beast of burden.
After 10 years of marriage,
flowers. Flowers after ten years,
my God—
And my first thought is
I’m too tired.
Trimming roses is more work,
another task, one more obligation.
Justice is a dull metal shovel,
a drive, flooring it, to the edge of town,
windows rolled down,
cold air stinging my eyes.
Justice is labor all night
against hard, packed earth,
digging a me-shaped hole,
putting me away in
my rightful home.
Instead
I exclaim,
take the squeaky plastic,
trim and fuss.
Roses are roses, after all,
whether or not we are worthy.
They are neither for the living
nor the dead—what use have they?
Roses are for the living dead.
No indifferent, half-alive heart
can withstand the honesty
of flame colored roses
when they blossom, blaze, then
in all their soft, velvet crowned brevity
bow their heads to do
what all earth creatures must.
I think, as I pull them free of sour water,
brittle leaves crunching against palms,
scattering darkened petals,
snapping straight stems to fit in rubbish:
Is there any chance I will
unfurl with such integrity,
then wilt and brown and droop
so gracefully?
You will nod when you read this,
say “hmm,”
and perhaps next time think twice
about buying me roses.
Oh.
Please don’t.
I’m not busy, and besides,
see what this bunch did.
Perhaps the next dozen will revive me entirely.