It’s an early evening in November
and I’ve just come from the Armory
where this season’s distrust and our
perennial hope have grown a long vine
of blossoms
twisting toward the polls,
but I was smart, this once,
and was just looking for
the ballot drop
before heading home
to grade and, perhaps, to drink
a little.
In my garden, the last two roses
of the year hang fat on a long,
thin cane that I’ll prune
after our first, hard frost.
They stare at me, dumb beauty
tempting me to touch, to cup,
to protect for as long as
I can.
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