A wee fist comes out
of a Mister Lincoln rose,
taps your nose.
You hear a voice, which purrs,
slurs like a kind, formidable,
boozy perfumed aunt: "This,
kiddo, is what a rose
is supposed to smell like. Not
like the nothing-blooms in
the goddamned florist's deep-freeze."
Copyright 2012 Hans Ostrom
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment