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.