Buzzed, I meander
to the front porch, waiting
for my ride
to pick me up.
My mother, coming in
from gardening, hands me
a freshly picked
bundle of lilacs.
"Here," she laughs,
friendly,
"I bet these smell better
than cigarette smoke."

Laughing, I take them
and agree,
not wanting her
to hang around
and smell more
than cigarettes.

My ride comes quickly.

And when I return,
a half hour later,
the lilac buds are closed,
wilted in the absence
of a bush to grow on
or a vase to dwell in.

Who knew flowers
could die
so quickly.

I wanted to put them
in water.