A bush with two roses –
one grousing grouchy.
Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.
Gray clouds seep slightly,
a spray paint making skin more clear
He cut me and I bled green
because I was young.
Because he removed a thorn,
I shook down to my roots.
With his pocket knife he smoothed me
from heel to head and I became a rose
the envy of every other rose.