Rose thief

With a pair of fabric shears,

I snipped half a dozen roses from the yard of a foreclosed neighborhood home.

Big blowsy blooms looked at me moonishly as I tip-toed through the weedy garden, avoiding the several sodden newspapers mildewing underfoot.. ink and fiber married together for eternity, or at least for a steamy period decomposition.

I’d like to think the roses were happy to have me have them, but I did feel a bit of a sneaky thief, orphaning the young buds from their sun drowsed siblings.

And the children leaning against the railings of the apartment building across the street, chirping to each other, deciphering whether I belong to the empty house that they must certainly trespass around on Saturdays.

Six thorny stems with heads of custard, rouge, snow, and shell pink, went into their coffin of cold water, and beamed obligingly for two afternoons on my coffee table.

They’ve wilted away,

but the bushes in the abandoned yard keep shining for no one.