Leslie St. John

I Buy Dying Flowers

For John Mark, 2002–2004

scoop them from their discount pail
like old laundry: petals fall
to the high-wax floor like a trail
of forgotten underwear,
that one sock.

And that soupy reflection
carrying full-blown roses, tulips
smooth as worn baseball gloves—
who am I kidding

cradling those soft-stems,
handing the cashier $4.75 for more
than two dozen heavy-headed,
hump-necked, half-life flowers?

At home I slide scissors through plastic
with one sweep, pull out flowers,
slightly slimy, and snip the ends
on the diagonal.

For days I watch them swell through
their earlobe curve and drop
into vase water, petal
by petal. They do what they do.
Nothing sad about it.