Conversations with the Flowers

Weak coffee, pre-dawn. We’re sneaking out like we’d robbed the place. Mayflower beach, July’s gone. We’re all alone dancing in the waves. I found you some seaglass. You always loved seaglass. I see you, in the side room, chain smoking darts in your favorite chair. You tell me about the moon, or Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. I peer through your telescope–see the parts you want me to know. I’ll remind the flowers every morning in the dawn. I’ll make sure they don’t forget they’re wanted and they’re loved. I’ll carry what you taught me–hold it close until I’m gone. I’ll sleep in peace. I’ll wake in light. I’ll soldier on. They should name you the Saint of Patience for all the shit that you put up with. Still awake at 3 am since you couldn’t sleep ‘til the kids were in. I sip slow on a Barry’s Tea, the kind that you’d always make for me. In your dress shoes and a bathrobe, lost in a blue plume of Pall Mall smoke. You tell a story that doesn’t end, so I laugh along with you as you go, ‘cause your idea of heaven is us at 187.