Flowers

It is time to meet the flowers. In their chill in their half-light in their buckets with their cold wet feet. They wait. In their bundles. Tied, cellophaned. You cannot buy only one. In their anxiety. Their standing tall after travel. Your mind empties. You blink. No. You close your eyes and you open them. You are weighing flowers. They lie stiff where potatoes have been. Skin of garlic. You know the weight, but the price stays the same. This is why you no longer shop here. It is too much, and you are not, by that measure, enough. You consider taking your savings from the bank. In case of emergency. It is already. You do not listen to the speech. Still it cuts you. You do not believe a word. Still. Your words are being deleted. By your, you mean more than your own. Again. Again. They will try again until it is all over. Again. A spider is crossing your pages. No longer crossing. A spider may be dying or may be dead. Once you lived in a place with elephant ears and Spanish moss and skinny acrobat squirrels. A place with bibles and bumper stickers and almost no public transportation. Skinny because acrobatic. Skinny because underfed. A nutrient-poor environment. Torrential rains. A place with cheap grilled cheese sandwiches and doors that had been kicked in and went unrepaired. An old man on a gurney outside the back doors of a funeral home as if waiting to be let in. Your mind empties. Less a magic trick. More gone. Gone. Gone.