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The Gardener
I give her a rose.
She takes it with a smile.
I pick her some daisies.
She laughs; I’ve made her happy.
Well, if it’s flowers she wants, I’ll plant a whole garden!
Every seed is worth every penny;
Every hour is worth just a glance.
I show her what I’ve grown for her;
She is confused. She pats my shoulder:
“Very nice,” and then she is gone.
Maybe I need more tulips? Perhaps she likes those?
Or maybe it’s lilies?
She says I have a green thumb!
I’ll plant a forest for her. Anything, anything.
Rosemary takes root because it matches her eyes.
Plucking petals daily:
She loves me;
She loves me not.
An oak tree for her to read books under;
She loves books. She has a new one daily.
A bench so her dress won’t get dirty.
Seventeen rows of rose bushes;
I hope for seventeen smiles.
I wait for her to visit again, to call.
I lie in her garden at night
To make sure it still looks beautiful when the sun is gone.
She comes the next morning.
“You should be a gardener!”
Anything, anything for you.
She smiles and she does not stop to smell the roses.
I rip them up;
What thorns?
Anything, anything.
Blood turns pink under the faucet.
Someone has left a voicemail.
Slippery hands leave a dry towel on the counter;
Slick palms cradle the phone.
It is not from her.
I go to dry my hands.
Then I hit play.
“Don’t you know that she doesn’t even like flowers?”
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