it's wallflower season and they're in
full bloom - not that
they expect anyone would ever notice, of course. nobody picks
a bouquet of gray and white-toned loneliness
to give to their sweethearts.
but there's fields and fields of them, if you know
where to look. find
the longest hallways,
the shadows of school dances,
the library's back tables, and they'll be flourishing:
stand still and they'll sidle closer, their breath
cool against your skin. you'll want to pity them,
poor insubstantial things,
trapped on the boundaries of could've-been and almost-made-it.
you'll want to, but you won't
because these are the outskirts, wrong side of town
for saints and martyrs. and in the end
you'll leave them there
like everyone else, and go back home
to hollywood, where the streets are golden
and the starlets platinum blonde.
never spare a second thought
for the weak and wilting wallflowers;
which is probably better, anyway. lord knows
they'd never last in a vase.