May Day
I want to leave flowers on your door, but
my gifts embarrass me --
Too fresh
too fickle
too much.
Words I lisped yesterday
with simple sincerity
in a hallowed churchroom
echo back today, loud and
maybe misunderstood --
the worst kind of
haunting.
I should have just shut my sloppy mouth!
Gray hair, puffed face and
Teenagers who smell
like sweat (or something else)
glowering at me. "Seriously? This is what you offer?"
Woe is me! I weeded and watered
And weaved a wreath of sweetness --
plucked each blossom just for you
to match your eyes, your mood
or what I read on your palm.
But it's tacky on the door,
So, go ahead.
Trash it.
I didn't buy toilet paper today.
Now what matters most is
absent,
exhausted,
used up.
