On the star spangled formica table
I place a clear glass vase
half filled with tap water.
I cut the stems of heavy headed sunflowers
that I picked from behind our apartment
just this morning.
Last night you said, ” You want to leave.”
I arrange the flowers, struggling with their corollas
willfully wanting to go the other way
Eight crowns, each one claiming
a country in the still air of our kitchen
I stand back, look at the kitchen, now clean
and the vase of sunflowers, standing
like a heavy sigh on the kitchen table.
I lean against the 50’s white stove that
has kept us warm all winter long.
The sun sneaks under the blinds, turning
yellow as spring creeps up on winter.
I lean there alone in the early morning
take a drag from my cigarette wondering
what I can do to make
the flowers
not look so sad.
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