"Thanks For Remembering Us," by Dana Gioia
The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they're not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.
The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The rooms smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can't
throw out a gift we've never owned.
Improvisation:
Hallmark Happy Birthday
The flowers are beautiful, I said, swirling through
the kitchen in all the glamor-garb of an angsty girl on
her birthday, whirling my best Cinderella before the big
ball. Such a special day, turning twenty-one. I pictured
the presents, the bar parties. Sombrero shots to start
the night, sending everyone straight gyrating and side-step-
jigging. Pub-hubbin' on the dance floor. How silly the
fantasies of the female sex. Rout in flights of fairy tale.
You see, tangled in the whirlwind of my own tale of twirls,
I forgot to says thanks. But before I could taunt him with
lips of approval, he turned to me and said I didn't
send you those flowers, or any flowers. What shall
we do? Tearing the card's seal, he read just for hope of finding
the man-name inside. Instead, inked in curls of cursive, Roses
are red, violets are blue, and these daises were made special
just like you.
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