Dollar King
is probably not
the most idyllic place
to pick up flowers,
especially when they're
fake.
She’ll call you cheap, deride
your half-assed effort—
to find an anniversary
bouquet; clearly during the gasp
of the final minute.
It’s to efflorescence
what Alpha-getti is—
to a romantic, Italian
dinner—though yes,
you can arrange I Love You
in its basement-bargain
sauce, put on Pavarotti’s
Chittara Romana.
But there’s being
a little frugal
and then there’s
Marley & Scrooge,
your wallet unable to open,
as if it’s been krazy-
glued.
It’s a roll of
one-ply paper
when Cottonelle's
a toonie more;
the socks with
eleven holes
beneath your shabby
shoes from George ;
it’s an expired
box of Turtles
when Laura Secord's
daisy-fresh—
and I don’t mean a
faded fabrication,
but the feel of the real
McCoy, its baby’s
bottom corolla,
the one you
pluck the petals from
to see if you’re truly
loved,
if it carries
to your final
breath,
though I recall
you once remarked
just how everlasting
every counterfeit
can be,
handing out a 50
to the beggar
along the way,
his gesture
of thumbs-up, smile of
gratitude—
once you departed the
store with a
scentless bundle,
its plastic, greenish
stems,
his conveyance to
you
they’ll be in bloom
a thousand years
from now,
when our currency
has died
and blown away,
when love is spelled
with the letters of a
newborn tongue.
Andreas Gripp
October 26, 2024
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