Infinite cheer

Plastic flowers bloom
in little glass jars, perpetually

stems leaning
two at a time, toward the light
a cheerful centerpiece on every table
that's life
in the retirement home

they sit
dusted in
a thin layer of what
other, more vibrant things
no longer needed
remnants
of what it takes to live on

things moving through space
always compelled, forward
in flow and easy to bleed

to a bee,
these petals are scentless
artificial wonders
crudely modeled, confused
and missing anatomy
indistinguished from what's been discarded
stigma, at surface level
only let out on display

who knew
invulnerability could be so boring
face fixed, forever in youthful gaze
Lestat, centuries after turning
still feeling nothing
at sun's ray

immortal beings
hungry to risk anything
longing for something left
to offer, to lose
outliving everything around them
forced to witness heat without basking
decay
and warmth at the same time

this is what it feels like
when climax
has nowhere else to go
they say
nothing can be enjoyed
without risking destruction
and that's something
the old folks know

I remember visiting “the old folks home” on an elementary school field trip. We brought flowers (real ones), sang songs, and made friends with people who “had no one.” They were left alone, and lonely, we were told.

I remember listening to their stories, enthralled, feeling their enthusiasm. Old jokes landing with laughter they hadn’t heard yet. Grandkids at their feet, they hardly knew.

I wasn’t expecting to write this today, after walking by a glass jar of fake flowers through a window. Yes, I can’t help but glance at open windows as I’m passing by, at street level - no, I’m not staring, or nosing about. Just noting what I see and writing about it later, in mid-step. OK, anyway, moving on.

What emerged while writing this poem was a feeling of sadness for the flowers, and what they symbolize. They never risked anything, and therefore have never felt anything. They’re hardly appreciated, because they never move, give off a scent, or wilt. Basically, they’re frozen in time, disconnected from the cycle of life and death, like a vampire. Unlike the people in the retirement home, and the writer looking in people’s windows, who are living their lives, imperfectly and at great risk. We’re gifted with the climaxes of joy, love, and hope, because we can feel the other side, too. The balance of being alive.

The people in the retirement home know this all too well, and face their own stigma from society - that they are lost and discarded. Well, I hope some local kids (or even better, family members) will come and visit them soon. They probably have some good jokes to tell, again.

💐