Garnished Beloved

The sweat's still drying
in the denim of my shirt
from a day of wrestling sinks
and toilets and tubs.
I'm waiting on a makeshift bench
at the only flower shop I trust
since it's run by Asians
and they focus on detail.
They killed us in poetry
("Keep your heart small")
numbers, now cars--
even invented gunpowder
so we'd blow ourselves up.

Some poor slob
in a Tee three sizes too tight
is pacing near the counter
a look of remorse plastered
to his droopy mug.
We never make eye contact
though not by my volition.
There's a song on the radio
that I'd comment on
if the ice was properly broken.
It isn't. He's too buried in shame
to notice my expression.

"You'll be forgiven," the fine
young female florist says
as she brings his bouquet
to the register.
He doesn't respond, merely hands
her his card
to pay for his flower-bought penance.

The sight's too sore for blue collar eyes
so I gaze passed the tips of my outstretched boots
at the indoor pond they've had here for years.
Moss grows on the fountain
and the goldfish sprout cancer.
Some saps along the way
have mistaken it for a wishing well.
I look to join their folly
and fumble through my left pocket
but no change jingles.
All I feel are keys
half of which go to locks
I've long forgotten
thank God.

The fake carp mouth their understanding
in my general direction.
No need for luck.
We'll wing it
as we always have.

That boor who beefed up
slinks toward the door.
I suck in my dogs
so he can get by.
Part of me wants
to tell him the truth
but it won't mean a lick
if it's not learned by fire.

If you win
say nothing.
If you lose
say less.

"Tulips," I tell the florist
as I rise to be helped.
"Tulips are her favorite."