I don’t care about that
They’re expensive and all that
And I meant it
Truly.
I would much rather have a sweet note
Or a steamy poem
Like you always used to write.
Or a stroll down the path,
Hand in hand
With that hand that could make me swoon
With just a tickle of a finger in my palm
These weren’t like the tired old oh brother
of a bunch of red roses.
Obligatory hot house tokens
of supposed true love.
(Or at least the typical lusty hope
That something might come of this
With flowers involved.)
But the thing is
Now the notes don’t come anymore
And the fingers rarely fumble for mine
Along secret paths.
So some flowers every once in a while
Might still make me believe that you
Well, you know,
Things I used to
Believe
When no flowers were needed
And the hand could make me swoon
Sometimes I’d like to find him
And tell him about you.
And hope that one of you writes me a poem
Or picks me some daisies
Or at least buys me a hothouse waste of money
So I could believe again
And snuggle in
To the fragrance of
Extravagant waste
For extravagant love
© 2025 Laurie Sitterding
*This poem was selected for publication on Poets Online.
