Unfuckable is the new thirty.
Coneflowers like a dirty taffeta,
purple daisies like dirt, dirty knobs of phlox,
dirtfuck hollyhocks, scarred-up and dead-sauced,
stuck in an apartment in a heat wave.
What, dear flower, was poetry good for
besides putting the capitalist force
of college diplomas into the phrase
“If you don’t love me I’m gonna kill myself”.
The wise take being unloved as given,
saying “smell the hyssop syrup” or some such:
whipping biscuits off a hotel rooftop,
hollerin’ “hyacinths symbolize baseball!”
Primrose like something prim, the way a smudge
of color is as good as it will get.
The way one hands out rue like sunscreen
cuz it’s going to be one of those Sundays.