Little rose on the table,
how lonely you must be.
Bought and sold, accruing mold,
you are but coin in trades of love.
Suitors see your crimson flush,
rush past, pass laughs, leave one last touch.
Much love their eyes descry
as yours cry petals from lack.
Petals fall from this wilting rose,
a flaccid feminine flower unfurling.
The thorns have long since been snipped,
and its luster has all but vanished.
Bees will never pollinate this rose.
Thrushes will never hold its hips.
But the rose has no feelings.
It’s just a rose on a table.
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