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.
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