Annual

The pharmacy floor smells like bleach and dust,

a chemical sting that's lingering in the air.

The foil balloons have started to lose their trust,

sagging toward the floor in a shiny prayer.

I see the cupcakes with the bright red mark,

marked down to clear before the sugar goes bad.

It takes me back to the night in the dark

when the power went out and the world went mad.

I ate my cereal while the wind blew hard,

watching a blue candle start to lean and bend.

It melted into a question mark, charred

at the wick, like a story without an end.