Broken rose in dirty doorway

Two days past st valentines

Biting cold, dark drizzle, grim grey sky

Soiled storefront boarded up, obscured

three steep steps to nailed-shut entry

Bloom lies perfect, deeply red

on sheltered slice of pavement there

Stem snapped off short, still deeply green

Can't know — how flower fell, or when, or why

what shame or hate or sorrow led to this

this shocking, lovely, hurtful sight —

hurts more to want so much

to rescue it, to take it home

give it water, life inside a glass

but worst is knowing —

the knowing that won't happen

Cannot face it

Can't be seen

to weakly turn aside

to scurry up there

enter dark dead doorway

bend down low

gather . . . garbage

spurned red rose

No, not that

cannot do that

will not do that

just slowly

eyes averted

from living, dying bloom

keep on going

walk on by