Reduced bouquet

By the automatic doors, where the cold draft pulls,

the sad bucket of reduced blooms.

Carnations, mostly, their edges brown, soft holes

where petals used to be. Plastic ribbon still ties

the bunch together, a pointless formality.

They slump, heavy, in dusty green water, flies

maybe, or just lint, floating on the surface.

One pink petal, too vibrant for its death,

has come loose, a small, bright disgrace

in the murk. It's too much, the wasted breath

of beauty, the way things just give up, or fail

to hold on. Nobody wants a fading trail.