At This Difficult Time
I hate Enrique because he’s calm
and unexceptional, like he’s helping me
order pay-per-view or cell service.
Who the hell up sells sympathy bouquets
anyway? We’re nearly there when he bumps up
to a lovely arrangement–roses, lilacs, the works–
and crystal vase for only twelve bucks more.
Who I am to haggle over a dead woman’s flowers?
It’s perfect, that linchpin of grief twisted just so
that you bleed a little extra, especially after
he so helpfully gave me the words for a card
I didn’t think I’d need: At this difficult time,
he softly intoned, we’re thinking of you. Sold.
I stuck to my guns and bid him down. Hooray.
Soon some woman out in Mill Plain
will receive an unexpected, econo-bouquet
from someone she didn’t know her mother knew.
I hope it’s lovely.