Daisies
I lean against the window
And tune in to the frequency of the potholes in the road
The glass is cold and suspiciously sticky
The flower falls apart in my hands
Covering the skin in pollen
Grass tickles my sides
I sneeze and almost hit my head on the dinner table
My napkin falls off my lap and onto the carpeted floor
My reflection stares at me from the swirling glass of red wine
A car honks at the empty red light
The stoplight tells me to wait
My alarm sounds and I roll out of bed onto the floor
The sweat on my skin sticks to the wood
I lift my head up and look at the pile of flower petals
Overflowing in the trash can
I like this cold, almost glacial objectivity. I used to write poems like this in the past, though they didn’t seem to work as well as this one.