HERE COME THE LARKSPURS
...And don't bring them back again: too
many things to remember, flowers and
smells. It all drives me crazy. She walks
by me too, carrying a box of something.
I want to talk, but don't. A nation of
florists; Jeez, just what I always wished
for. Green glass, and blue-glass marbles.
'They're annuals,' someone says. I don't
even know what that means - you plant
them every year? Or they come up every
year? Who dreamed this confusion up?
The other guy, one over from me, says,
'At least, with a bowling ball, once the
holes are in, the holes are in.' Yeah, right.
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