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