Matt McGee

FLOWER MAN

 

The guy’s a pain in the ass.

Bobbing through the crowded bar

network seven nights a week, sidling up

beside guys focused on digits. “Flowers for

your girl?” This is your chance to spend $10

or else hear “but you bought some for that

other girl the other night…!” I’ll shake

my head and wave him away before

he can even get near our table.

 

You’ll say ‘but he’s such a

hard worker! The All-American

success story,’ criss-crossing the city

in a white Nissan van, one of two bought

with cash despite his pleas: “I’m just trying

to get my family over from back home, God

willing.” His eyes dip toward the floor, part

of the act that, along with the Square he

always carries, has sold more flowers

than Merlin Olsen himself.

 

 

 

HANGERS-ON

 

Caught a leaf in mid-air today,
snatched it from a spring gust that had
pushed it aside for spring's buds.
”The cavalry has arrived,” I say.

With the leaf in my fingers

I pass a young woman dressed like an old one
clinging to the fashion rites of a disappeared era;
orthopedic shoes scratch the cement
and her skirt, decorated with tiny flowers,

rises up and blows over the walk
and she keeps moving,

against the will of the seasons
her time not yet up.