On Saving the Old Bouquet

Lately, a child whose heart is so full
              they arrive to school opening their mouth
                            & spilling from their lips the whole floral section
                                          of Stop n Shop. We cup the flowers in our hands
                                                        & shirts. I help dust the petals.
                                                                      Each rose is a memory flaking.

Lately, an adult who looks at the time on his phone
              then uses its light to walk by. His footsteps are ticking,
                            his heels kick up hourglass sand. He looks back
                                          & back & back again, as though searching
                                                        for Lot’s wife, his mother, forever Sodom’s salt.

Lately, we blow into our mugs. It is wine, but no one
              deserves to know this. Pinot. Me & you.
                            I use Scotch tape to hang a tea string from the lips
                                          of our vessels. They dangle like two sunrises.

Lately, the sun stays hanging in the air & guilting us all into play.
              Lately, I play. The rules are broken, the sun rays
                            disenthralled. If I miss the dead too much,
                                          they follow me into my dreams, pulling out chairs
                                                        in their kitchens. Over coffee, over tea,

they sing, Spill! Spill the petals all over your precious tile floors!
              They harmonize like Simon & Garfunkle.
                            They flop through pages & pages of their diaries.
                                          They open a window & let the pollen in.