Black coffee in a handled bowl,
morning paper still warm from the press,
under the umbrella by the door
waiting for my morning flower show.
Seven fifteen and Venus is stepping off her shell,
shaking off the seafoam and searching for her keys
to unlock the flower shop
and put every petal and blossom to shame.
Goddess of flowers,
they bend and twine to her will
and smell sweeter for her touch.
In her shop,
May I help you she says,
and I am helpless
It is impossible.
to take a flower
from her hand and give it
to another woman.