Roses and Rain

You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?

Rain soaked fingers scramble for the key,

Trembling with cold, fingers numb and blue.

Come on, one two three-

Finally the door swings, we’re through!

But as I step inside my feet collide

With an object on the floor;

And thanks to that single stride,

I, too, am on the floor.

Pulling it from beneath my leg,

I see the roses I squashed quite well.

This is not some cruel joke, I beg-

I’ve already had a day of Hell.

With all remaining energy I stand,

And find the aggrieved bouquet a home;

Wondering who is the admirer at hand.

And through my memory I comb…

This matter delicate as the petals,

Is a war between delight and distress,

With only one way for it to be settled-

For the admirer to confess.

Back at the door where it began,

I stare out at the busy street

And there’s the man,

Amidst the rush of the city our eyes meet:

Then I am outside, the rain hits me.

But I don’t mind because he’s there,

The guy who always serves me coffee-

Why was I never aware?


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