the florist

He came into her shop in jeans, looking tired,

Bedraggled, as he placed his hands upon the counter top.

The florist put her hands on his and felt the warmth

The love that coursed through languid veins, that wanted to give up.

She smiled and moved away, he didn’t need to give his name.

The flowers she had made for him were in her sweetly scented room,

A simple spruce of creams and pinks, the words ‘my love’

Printed on the envelope, she hadn’t read the card, tempted though she was

She thought of it as private words, between a husband and a wife.

He touched the petals as she proffered them, in hands that wanted,

That needed to reach out and touch his skin.

But soon he scooped them up into his arms and nodded thanks

And as the little bell sang out to signal that he’d left

She sighed and wished she didn’t get so wrapped

In clients lives, their loves, their pains, their wants.

This man had wanted back his wife, she didn’t figure in his dreams.

The funerals were always hard, she hoped that she would see

That man again in different circumstance.

She knew that this time she had fallen bad,

She knew that she was in too deep.