Tired of tending decadent roses so inbred
that they had to be handfed
I give up and let weed take over,
they are after all flowers by another name.
Rudely blue, full of sap,
stand firmly on the muscular, hairy stems,
strangling anything in their struggle to reach the sun
and show off their pungent flowers
that attracts bees but make honey reek,
like unmade beds in a morning-tired whorehouse.
Today I saw yellow roses freely grow on top of the compost heap,
hairy stems, like a prize fighter’s legs,
thorns, the size of hobo’s nails,
keeping pushy blue weeds at bay.