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.
Candleships 