wilted petals

there used to a family
run florist
up the street
from where you lived.
it was a low lying
brick building
with curved glass
which always seemed
foggy inside.
you probably dropped
a couple of thousand
dollars in there
on flowers sent to
a variety of girls
you dated over
your youthful years.
roses, mums, sunflowers.
whatever was bunched up
into a vase and on sale.
sometimes you went cheap.
other times, if you
were in deep angst
and heartbreak you
went for the dozen
red roses in a crystal
vase. delivered
with a fancy white
card. you used to think
that flowers could save
the thing. keep her
around. put forgiveness
in her heart, give
you another shot.
of course it never worked
you finally stopped
sending them when
the old woman
answering the phone
began to laugh
upon hearing your
voice. what's her name
this time, she'd say,
snickering over stems
of cut flowers and
wilted petals lying
at her feet, and perhaps
her own broken heart.