I am folded up
a little buttercup
in the yellowing leaves
of a torn book's griefs
tossed carelessly in
a pressed flower grin;
or I am flattened
stretched out and
steamrollered down
on the tarmac of a frown.
Your eyes met mine
quite by chance
yesterday at my works dance
twenty years on when
the sun shone, yes for me again
shone just for an hour,
a careless dream our
hearts never knew.
I turned to you, to
your depressing departing
back quickly darting
out of the ballroom.
I wouldn't try to bloom
again you know, drooping
in direct sunlight
eclipsing my silly alter ego.
