80spoems/deadrose

DEAD ROSES

When some roses die
they become dead roses.
Others are poignant memories,
their petals preserved
in a cut-glass dish,
the baby’s breath
stuck behind a picture frame,
too crisp to speak
the dry words
of other days.

Yet some roses only die,
and as a consequence
they are dead,
stems bent, the unopened bud
pressed in the trash,
on top of the cereal box,
the kiwi skin,
a soiled paper towel.