Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Apr 16, 2008 13:02:45 GMT -5
Revision (with new title)
He thumbed the onion-skin of paper flowers
that were preserved beneath the underwear
she'd coyly modeled in the smaller hours
of summer nights (when she still claimed to care).
She stuffed the lingerie inside her bag
before she jetted off to conquer Rome.
It seems she found some Roman fit to shag,
and she had worn them, briefly. He, at home,
a continent apart, but maybe more,
plucked off the petal from each plastic stem
of paper daisies he'd intended for
symbolic laughs. She'd joked, "I'll cherish them,
so best not let them die while I’m abroad”
(as if a manufactured bud could thrive).
But, like their love, the flowers were a fraud,
and what can die that never was alive?
Original
I thumb the faulty skin of paper flowers
that you preserved beneath the underwear
you modeled coyly in the smaller hours
of summer nights (when you still claimed to care).
You stuffed those panties in your Prada bag
when you took off last week to conquer Rome.
I hear you found some Roman fit to shag,
and he removed them for you. I’m at home,
a continent apart, but maybe more,
plucking the petals from each plastic stem
of paper roses I’d intended for
a private joke. You said you’d cherish them,
adding, “Don’t let them die while I’m abroad.”
I soothed, “Don’t worry, honey; they’ll survive.”
But like this love, the flowers were a fraud,
and what can die that never was alive?
He thumbed the onion-skin of paper flowers
that were preserved beneath the underwear
she'd coyly modeled in the smaller hours
of summer nights (when she still claimed to care).
She stuffed the lingerie inside her bag
before she jetted off to conquer Rome.
It seems she found some Roman fit to shag,
and she had worn them, briefly. He, at home,
a continent apart, but maybe more,
plucked off the petal from each plastic stem
of paper daisies he'd intended for
symbolic laughs. She'd joked, "I'll cherish them,
so best not let them die while I’m abroad”
(as if a manufactured bud could thrive).
But, like their love, the flowers were a fraud,
and what can die that never was alive?
Original
I thumb the faulty skin of paper flowers
that you preserved beneath the underwear
you modeled coyly in the smaller hours
of summer nights (when you still claimed to care).
You stuffed those panties in your Prada bag
when you took off last week to conquer Rome.
I hear you found some Roman fit to shag,
and he removed them for you. I’m at home,
a continent apart, but maybe more,
plucking the petals from each plastic stem
of paper roses I’d intended for
a private joke. You said you’d cherish them,
adding, “Don’t let them die while I’m abroad.”
I soothed, “Don’t worry, honey; they’ll survive.”
But like this love, the flowers were a fraud,
and what can die that never was alive?
