Trapped in a small living room
the rose wants to bloom, it grows,
opens its shells, shows its thorns
and asks very quietly, “touch me,
there on the silk soft spots, not at
the bottom where it will poke.”
While the growing stops
and the living groom becomes
the thought of a man craving more,
where he’s hiding some porn
hidden inside the keyhole
watches her meander and settle
the light long left behind
like dirty water in a glass jar
where it sucks and pulls until it falls,
the rose is huge, in his mind
the petal shrinks, behind,
she shows him the way
too late, the room full,
the rose wilts
the key turns
back, locked.
Fastfood romantics 
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