thinking
for whom this may be?
Its red intent held tight
holding on for a bosom
to be pressed against
with thoughts of
"My oh my oh my how lovely!"
Still
this sticker dollar'd
plastic coned rose
sat
uncoined
sat
with the gum
and beauty magazines.
I came across this rose
knowing
for (certain) whom this would be.
Yes its red intent going
to the girl
who is game,
to the girl clad
in repeat horizons,
to the girl who
not once
not twice
but thrice
had said my name
when I wandered to the whim
of my lonesome fold.
Her voice.
My name.
God damn I do exist.
And within
the folds
of
this rose
echoed the pleasant song
of when she
had said my name.
With a smile
I grasp this rose
by its plastic cone merchandising.
Drip drip
it drops water upon
my shoe,
water from the container
of halfbutt shop try sustenance.
"It'll never be."
What?
"It'll never be" again is heard
from the red intent.
Drip.
What? How do you know?
"I know for I am a rose."
Yayo this SoCal girl the one I spoke wi- . . .
"It'll never be."
"I know for I am a rose."
(Certain) dampened
I return the flowery devil
back to its shop slop bucket.
Still, it did sit.
Sticker dollar'd. Still.
Plastic coned. Still.
Queried.
For whom this rose,
was this for?
Thoughts go to
the girl
oh she of of humble lovely fair.
The Royal Lady of Repeat Horizons
whose line
upon line
upon line
line my mind
with the paint
of
that pleasant song.
And fresh this coat be.
Just as fresh as she.
There she lingers.
This rose for her,
it be.
But upon the second grasp smiling,
red whispers
"It'll never be"
at which then
a petal fell.
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