No Roses Left Inside my Gate
He didn’t leave me flowers; instead he sent a cake.
Surely, not the smartest choice that he will ever make.
The problem was, he left it inside my compound door
where the dogs could get it. Now it is no more!
My dogs have diarrhea and I have no dessert.
Little bits of cardboard are carpeting the dirt
and grass and bricks and tiles and every patio chair—
with every bit of frosting licked from them with care.
I cannot really blame my friend for this ungodly mess.
The blame is clearly only mine, I’m driven to confess.
My friend’s a loyal reader and I’m a foolish girl.
You’ll understand more clearly if you read this URL:
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Admirers.” You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you? (This poem is a rewrite of a much earlier post.)