Florist

The theatre is closed in the morning But outside is a florist So I watch him Wrap stems in paper and twine No gloves on The back of the van is open And he has almost gotten rid of them All the old stalks from yesterday Rings run Around his eyes But he picks his way lightly between clients Between regulars with empty hands And non-regulars un-fastening bags As if a bank note being discretely slipped From one palm to another to another He is slim Not noticeably so Just as if nobody expected morе or less of him The back of the van is opеn And he has almost gotten rid of them All the old stalks from yesterday Rings run Around his eyes But he picks his way lightly between clients Between regulars with empty hands And non-regulars un-fastening bags As if a bank note being discretely slipped From one palm to another to another He is slim Not noticeably so Just as if nobody expected more or less of him From this great distance I’m wondering about it Imagine one day He comes home to me and says There is nothing more I want than this He gestures to the tulips That look out from a bucket, bunched In the passenger seat of the van To his apron To his diary with nothing in And I say That’s perfectly fine Perfectly alright Perfectly without the need to tell me All the time We’re standing in the drive I push the porch door The front door And three breaths later The door to the downstairs bathroom It has been primed for a year Without paint on I pull up the sash window Feeling the throbbing heat From the engine of the van I cry And because it’s night He can see me Like a screen