I pull a fetid rose
from the Garden

of life,
I know little

it’s this death I’m living
that is too familiar

torn lotto tickets taste of it
same as a cold styrofoam shell from
Dot’s Diner where my story fell flat and
the blue hairs waxed on about the way it was
despite their commitments

so I poured another crack whore a drink and told Bill
his cab smelled like roses
as he pushed another filter in his burnt lips
and pointed to the rose hanging from
his one way mirror