Eleven Roses

(for John)

The 12th one was left 

in the middle of the street,

by an old man waving a cane

warding off his caregivers, frail gown

snapping in the wind 

flesh,  

the color 

of a bruise.

At the hospital, after the police left,

his family never came,

his hearing aids never worked,

run out
of batteries,
his memory
never failing

to remind him

that none of this
was fair.

After two weeks 

of staring, listless, nothing
ness

someone had the heart 

to bring him batteries.

Now 

his hearing aids worked
he could tell his story

the right way

call his daughter, his only daughter

and say

"fuck you"

and begin

behaving

just well enough

for just long enough 

to go back.

The roses all wilted by now.