Y.R

He smushed them into a bursting hard cover suitcase,

brought it to a stand between his thighs

forced it to a close

The flowers shrieked

I questioned his gesture, he said

it was the best way to dry them,

after all he’d never be able to appreciate them alive

he was leaving

The thought of passing them on

to live their fullness

never entered his mind

it was too crammed

I watched him go off into another day

undifferentiated for this unrelenting man

who journeyed only

There was something of a crumpled flower about him,

yellowish at the edges,

ochre in the middle,

something musty

even after a shower

I looked for the suitcase

encircling him as he walked to the train station

got lost in his years spent wandering

roaming the ground, finding more reason

for aimless searching

Then seeing the child in his stoop

I knew what he was hopelessly

looking for.