Flowers in Our Neighborhood
John Grey

Soon this flower I picked for you
will be completely dead.
It thought blossoming would be enough.
Didnít write poetry, didnít do charity work,
didnít 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.
Itíll wither, its version of crying out.
Itíll 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.
Itíll 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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