The flowers
sent here by mistake,
signed with
a name that no one knew,
are turning
bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor
says they're not for her,
and no one
has a birthday near.
We should
thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us
having an affair?
At first we
laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was
the first to die,
enshrouded
in its sickly-sweet
and
lingering perfume. The roses
fell one
petal at a time,
and now the
ferns are turning dry.
The room
smells like a funeral,
but there
they sit, too much at home,
accusing us
of some small crime,
like love
forgotten, and we can't
throw out a
gift we've never owned.
Dana Gioia, loc.gov November 14, 2023
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