Gas Station Apology

I bought them because they were there

next to the Slim Jims and the motor oil.

A handful of pink, a bit of a prayer

beginning to rot in the soil—

no, not soil, just a cloudy plastic cup.

The petals are crisp like burnt paper.

I keep trying to prop the stems up

but they’re vanishing like a vapor.

The sticker says fifty percent off.

I feel like a bargain-bin cheat,

standing here with a dry, hollow cough

and a bouquet that smells like defeat.