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The bucket at the depot was a grave

of neon plastic and a stagnant green.

I grabbed a bunch of carnations to save

the evening from the things I didn't mean.

The edges of the petals are a bruised and dusty tan,

curling like the paper on a cheap cigar.

I’m doing the very best that I can

with a five-dollar forest in the back of the car.

The floral tape is coming off the wire,

a sticky ribbon dragging on the floor.

They won't see the morning or the fire,

just the slow wilting by the kitchen door.