Cut flowers are uncomfortable things.
Their petals bring a little transient joy
that leaves me numb.
The ones that make your wreath
will soon be brown and brittle.
I stand to read a poem on your life,
all spittle gone, in sapless silence,
lost in your last whispered words,
'See you later, Baked Potato.'
If you have any comments on this poem, John Bevan would be pleased to hear from you.