from a derelict garden
just round the corner
I plucked a rose,
took it home to her,
my wife sick in bed.
She smiled, inhaled,
placed the rose-vase
beside her head
settling for a needed
good night’s sleep.
Next morning - another
bad night it was - stung
in the dark by - see? -
those black live specks
that came in on the
petals of the rose.
I can’t see them.
Rose, art thou sick?
The invisible mites
swarmed in the night
and found out
her pale cheek
for their appetite.
I’m binning you quick.
Aphid? - or thrip?
None would skip
a plant for a human.
Rose, I acquit you.
Wife, something
else bit you.
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