Regret at the Register

The carnations were leaning in the pail,

choking on a gallon of stagnant slime.

The pink was turning yellow, thin and pale,

a cheap and plastic-wrapped account of time.

I bought them for the passenger side seat,

because they looked as tired as the car.

The green wrap sweated in the midday heat,

leaving a damp and suffocating scar.

One petal had a dry and curled-up edge,

like a cigarette paper burnt to gray.

I left them on the kitchen window ledge

and watched them slowly give the ghost away.