He came,
trembling,
something he’d never done before.

She called his name,
saw him,
nervously entering the door.

He again
hid her gift,
nervously hugged her on the dance floor.

Was he insane?
He’d waited,
after plucking a dozen, wishing there were more.

Tender pink,
blushed white,
yellow, with sweet scent, not manufactured stink.

He’d think
and dream
of giving them as he sang, not screamed.

But then she arrived:
Flower woman
pail with stinky roses more dead than alive,

And the young jive
talker from the bar
bought one with a five.

and tenderly stroked
across her shoulder,
and he felt the old choke

as she spoke
flirting words
and caressed and touched and poked.

They danced,
she and the new man,
and the suitor lost courage, and his chance.

When his song
came, he sang,
sans roses; all romance gone.

And when the new
couple momentarily left,
he did what he had to do.

She never knew
the plans he’d made,
nor how they’d fallen through.

It wasn’t far
to take the dozen
sweet-scented caresses back to his car.

The night became unplanned.
He never told her.
She’d never understand.

She rode away
with the new he.
What could the old one say?

He sat crying
in his car
tormented by the sweet scent of roses dying.