A Withered Rose
A withered rose lies
forgotten in the parking lot amid the trash,
its dry leaves pulled
and shaken by an unfeeling wind.
Bits of paper dance in circles,
taunting the faded beauty.
Men have already come
to empty the dumpsters
by Stevenson, but they have missed this rose.
They took the empty pizza boxes,
wrappers from Chik-Fil-A and Subway,
beer bottles and pop cans.
But not the rose.
The once-crimson slips of satin have
dried to the color of old blood,
rough and brittle to the touch.
The sweet smell overpowered
with the stench of garbage.
I do not know who left the rose,
whether a disillusioned lover abandoned it
or someone was careless enough to drop such
a gift. Perhaps it was left over from Valentine�s Day,
or an escapee from a bouquet.
Students intent on the daily business of class and friendship
step over the melted ice cream and variegated liquid scum
but trod on the rose with indifferent shoes.
Bit by bit the rose fractures under such treatment.
The petals crumble into bits,
borne away by the wind
or embedded into the asphalt
by our weight.
This page hosted by
Get your own Free Home Page
