The Florist

The flowers are cold on an August morning,
so she rests her lips against the petals, exchanging temperatures.
The bell over the door will soon ring, and jangle,
the businessmen and housewives will besiege her sanctuary,
carrying off her children to die in foreign houses,
leaving only a jingling of coins as an honorarium.

The tiny copper fountain bubbles in the corner.
The fans and heater and air conditioners whir and thrum.
A slight breeze from somewhere crinkles the cellophane
and a row of tiny red bears sit in silent jury.

She is tall, and slender, what one might call willowy,
she is soft, and gentle, and good with her hands,
yet her eyes wear shadows back in their humors,
and she spends all her days here, behind the glass.