A bush with two roses –

one grousing grouchy.

Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.

Gray clouds seep slightly,

a spray paint making skin more clear

through coverings.


He cut me and I bled green

because I was young.

Because he removed a thorn,

I shook down to my roots.


With his pocket knife he smoothed me

from heel to head and I became a rose

the envy of every other rose.