Late August

The sunflower’s neck has a permanent bend,

looking for something at its own bitter end.

It’s staring at the baseboard, heavy and black,

with a spine that is bent and won't ever come back.

I touched a petal and it turned into soot,

falling like pepper on the top of my foot.

It’s a papery corpse in a vase with no scent,

just a yellow-bright lie that finally got spent.

I bought it to prove I could keep something real,

but the dirt is all dry and the leaves have no feel.

It’s bowing its head to the dust on the floor,

waiting for me to just open the door.