Late Night Perishables

The carnations are holding their breath

in a bucket of water the color of a pond.

They’re five days deep into a slow death,

tied up tight in a plastic, crinkled bond.

Twelve dollars for a bunch of wilted heads

that will drop their petals by the sink.

The overhead light turns the yellows into reds

while the clerk is trying not to blink.

I pull one out and feel the stem go slick,

coated in a film of grey and ancient rot.

It’s a desperate, colorful, expensive trick

for a love that’s already been shot.