The pump handle is slick with someone else’s spill

The pump handle is slick with someone else’s spill.

I go inside for a lighter and see them

crammed into a plastic bucket by the oil.

The water is the color of weak tea,

thick with the rot of submerged stems.

I pick a bundle wrapped in crinkled film,

carnations the color of a fresh bruise.

The price sticker is slapped across a petal,

partially hiding a brown, curled edge.

I don't know who I'm buying them for,

maybe just the empty kitchen table,

something to watch die in better light.

They smell like a funeral in a basement,

faint and sharp and mostly gone.