Wilted

 Wilted 

He found me
like a wild rose
on the roadside
I was thumbin’ my way to work.

He was a clinging vine;
transplanted himself into my world.  
Soon we were tangled together
around a picket fence dream.

We couldn’t afford to paint that fence white
even with me working two jobs
it stayed that gray shade
of weathered wood.

But who needs fresh paint anyway?
He had his cigarettes,
I had my kaleidoscope,
and we read Xaviera Hollander guide to mind-blowing sex together.  

After the children were born
he acted like the world was a slot machine
and it was somehow my fault
it wouldn’t come up all cherries.

And I made lots of
lemonade from all those
lemons he brought home
but he would only drink gourmet coffee.  

I think of him often now,
and sharply,
like when I pretend his neck
is the rose stem I am clipping.

There are times I want to shred
the leather jacket he forgot to take  
and turn every photo of him left
into confetti

but my memory softens
with an old song
and soon I need both hands
just to hold my heart together.

Now I know what it means
to give someone your youth.
Twenty-one years of my life
washed away, roots left exposed.

Just tell me please,
how does a flower on the roadside
catch someone’s eye
when it’s already begun to wilt?