A former trophy wife sniffs the blooms she bought
to stage some house she means to sell today.
They told her this was one she had to move
to hang onto her crappy job. She thought
about him. Her house. What she gave away:
She had her childhood surgically removed
and dropped friends like bottles in a blue bin.
He sloughed her quick as a snake sheds its skin.
She rides public transport. Buys dim flowers
and forgets those pills she knows she should take.
Now, faded as her hair dye, always tired,
she hopes the client will smile, not glower
once, and for a tasty boy who might make
her feel her soul’s date stamp hasn’t expired.