A bouquet of the day,
but which day? At 2:37 a.m.
the only sign of life amidst
confectionary snacks, day-old
donuts, wiper fluid,
potato crisps and magazines.
Newspapers are day old,
headlines no longer bold
or relevant. Nothing
is fresh at half past two,
especially not the coffee. Yet,
here I stand beneath this brutal
florescent light, colours scream, a
psychotropic dream. A mind
numbed by promise. There
is only one purpose for
gas station flowers, the
only beauty available
at this God dammed hour.
Until I show up at your door.
Beauty is where you find it, but
I want more.

@ 2016 j.g. lewis

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
fresh poetry any time of day