The biggest scam of our generation,

After Enron, after Ponzi,

Is the glut of bouquet in Feb.

The third week of the month,

After the fragrance wears thin and

Roses and posies and bundles of green

Are left rotting and useless and frozen

and has-been.

Destruction becomes us in the winter’s dead light,

As fleshy bundles of petals hit

Dumpsters and dive bar back doors

With sub-zero chills rolling in.

Pistils and stamen and stems

Wither down to dust;

Color, potential, never to sprout.

Sanitation smells like the forest floor

before the cold sets in.

But what an opportunity

Should the giving of flowers and kisses

Happen instead in June.

Time for seeds to melt into the earth

And burrow spindly roots into

The receptacles of modern consumption.

We could be overrun by flowers in September.

And love would blossom again.

And again.

We could be overrun by flowers.