Where We Lay Flowers

If I wore wasps in my shoes would I be more assertive?

Not distracted by the flowers on the zebra crossing

a beheaded bouquet of roses, onlooking

four bold tombstones of paint

I cross them like missing planks in a rickety bridge

drop into the graveyard and sniff the poppies,

azaleas piss stained and catching carrier bags

a waste bin for personal tragedies, daisies at war

with the rain drops, damps my scent

but your honey glazed door calls.

 

Stood, formal as a funeral on your welcome mat

I think about placing my shoes on my hands

and kicking the door down

But I’m holding down trodden dandelions,

you said you only like wild flowers after all

In the other, I’m holding my plushie, a microwaveable dinosaur

with lavender buttocks, that you gave me

to learn how to relax.

I feel claustrophobic in the sheet rain

laying with drowned bees

wondering how long they stung your letter box,

hoping you’d open up.

 

You only know I exist when outside represents spring

sun glossed, baking the lavender buds

You only know I exist when you find

the cuddly dinosaur on your doorstep,

laying with waterlogged bees and then

I worry you’ll accuses me of cheating on you.