Five Dollar Penance

The plastic wrap crinkles in the passenger seat,

a loud sound for a quiet drive home.

I bought them at the register

between the lighters and the cheap gum.

The carnations have brown, brittle edges,

like paper left too close to a match.

They smell like the bucket they came from—

that slimy, green water that hasn't been changed

since the middle of last week.

I’ll put them in a jelly jar on the sink

and hope the gesture covers the fact

that I forgot to call when I said I would,

back when the sun was still up.