roses

what brings
you here,
you ask,
and open the door
slightly,
blinking your
brown eyes,
in your pajamas,
done for the night,
a black
and white cat
in your folded
arms. what are
you doing here
standing in
the rain
with roses,
a bundle of cliche
roses, wilted
and crimson red,
there is no
spoken answer,
no reply, no need.
what's more
obvious than a
man standing soaked
in the rain at
midnight with
flowers, the taxi
waiting at the curb
to take his
broken heart
home.