What Happens to Unsold Roses?

At night in every corner store, bodega and flower mart
Dusky men pull the outer petals off roses
making blowsy, spent blooms
look like fresh, young rosebuds
It’s the biggest scam in New York.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day.
Buckets overflowed with lavish bouquets
Red, red roses, baby’s breath, green filler, ribbons
for a gesture of the heart.

But what happens to the unsold roses?
Like beauties not chosen at a dance
the promise of love and romance in the City
unrealized by 4am.

I long to gently free them from their rubber bands
Take heaps of their softly drooping petals
and spread them on the gritty sidewalks
shaping a giant crimson carpet leading to you.

Never Trust A Cigarette Smoker

A tobacco fiend has a heart like a blackened ashtray
They breathe in poison and spew it back out on you
When the smokescreen clears
See empty holes where character should be
View their cancered mind and choke on their stink smell
Taste the utter bitterness of their mouths
and then watch as they stamp you out
as casually as a butt on the sidewalk.

Bite

I'd like your salty flesh between my teeth
I promise not to break the skin
A tongue tracing the nape of your neck
And that's where we'll begin....

Remember?

There's only one record store left on St. Mark's Place
They used to be up and down the street
I remember when the St. Mark's Bookstore was ON St. Mark's Place
And Dojo's was the place to eat.