Deadhead the Roses

Deadhead the Roses

My wife said, deadhead the roses,
I ignored her and the rose bush
sank into a mid-summer funk
of shabbiness and colorlessness.
Few days later she asked again,
as we were having guests over
in a couple of weeks and she
wanted the bush fully dressed.
I ignored her, went about tinkering
with a model plane I was building
for my grandson.

Yesterday morning my wife sawed the wings
off the plane, left the pruning shears sticking out
of my steaming coffee cup with a note that said,
tomorrow it might be something below your belt.
By 10 a.m. the roses were deadheaded,
after which I sat at the kitchen table
gluing the wings back on my grandson's plane,
imagining a slight ache near my groin.

Peter A. Witt

Photo: Arturs Budkevics from Pixabay

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