a question of roses

some time in the night my roses passed
into that sorry state of petals gone loose
look at them, scattered on my table
why do i persist in bringing dead flowers
when i have no funerals or wakes
to suck the sun down into the dust

you know i go raw ravenous in the morning
led about like some roman's slave
by the merest and the simplest of pleasures
why do you make some prances
and some frowns when the sun's about
i can't strike darkness on your whims

what reason do i have for bringing roses
cut and broken full of aimless thorn
do they have a meaning that i've misplaced
i much prefer my foreign coffees
brewed in comfortable mystery
that i can sit and marvel on the day

i've caught some tiredness, maybe wafted
from the bay, maybe settled by our fog
and your hurried steps leave me wearied
i rather like this old brown sofa
pushed up to the window, ripe for
lazy smiles and musing, perhaps

i'll warm my toes in this early summer heat
sit and wait for strangers on the lane
and if they wander to my door
bring news from far or leave a sailor's charm
i'll say their fortune, give a portent
for their journey, for the hours standing by

and perhaps they'll finally tell me
why i bring these roses
and watch them die