Digging down in carry bag, I find a plastic sack

big enough to hold six little pots — though not ideal

for keeping fragile lifeforms upright and intact

still, workable, perhaps, with careful care?

So place the pots inside, but somehow now

barriers to buying these symbolic blooms

feel massive, unsurmountable

And then I think . . . I could . . . just . . . walk away?

Walk off right now?

With stolen blooms inside my plastic bag?

No one is near to spot the crime or frown

In short film mode I see the whole thing clear

the quiet woman strolling off

the opaque bag, unremarked, in her left hand

This thievish thought disturbs a different part of mind

And then I put the small pots back and walk away

Later, out by hardware store, displays of blooming plants

arouse regret — why was it all about my selfy self

my stupid feelings, instead of some small gesture?

Tiny sacrifice, just a very mild discomfort, to honour him?

Plants here are much more modest, some blooming herbs

An opal basil, dark purple leaves rampant, pale mauve flowers

like tiny lilac-tinted stars with white star hearts

A peppery nasturtium, spilling out its brilliant golden bloom

in one too-long tumbling vine, six times the length

of small-sized plastic pot, overwhelming its containment

overbalancing with weight of leaf, vine, bud

top-heavy unto breakage with bright life

The path inside is plastered with all-cap warning signs

already curled and yellowing with age

To STOP AT LINE is one

to WAIT HERE FOR INSTRUCTIONS another, further on

to MASK OBLIGATORY! a third — and also fourth

Yet no one is around, instructing

So in I go at last, though slowly, pausing, as one does

prepped for chastisement, a stare, a scolding shout

but no, the place stays quiet

Sweet guy at the till greets, remembers me,

though it has been a year or so

though I am masked, as he is

We used to speak sometimes of trees he grows

or tries to grow, surprisingly, on his small city balcony

***