The roses lie dead
on the floor
everyday Susie sends me more.
Strewn about, a mess at my feet
Chinese food, beer, roses and
Monopoly money from our last game?
The same; it only brings more pain.
Open the fridge, pop a top on a brew,
listen to voice mail—
of course ten are from Sue.
Drag out the scrapbook
to a worn out age;
there we are, in a field of violets:
when love was (all the rage)
Violets were then, roses are now
I will manage to send them all back too.
Roses it seems are a fitting way