Flowers

I bought myself flowers

I sometimes do

No one else seems to think

that I may feel joy

to receive them.

Two pounds

and ninety-nine pence

brings joy in spades.

Now my supermarket bouquet

relaxes in a clear, glass vase

I observe it’s stalks,

toned legs bathing in crystal waters

The green fronds of leaves

reach out over the lip to me

Atop sit a dozen radiant heads

of silken petals

with tips, a shade

of blancmange pink.

The hue of slightly embarrassed cheeks

that melts to butter cream.

At least someone thinks to buy me flowers

It’s so important that it’s me.