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  • andrew jeter

The Last Two Roses


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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