The roses on my table appear to be singing, so sure of themselves and their beauty. Both proud and arrogant they break into song the minute they are alone, when they think no one hears. I can tell by their pursed mouths, I have caught them in action, they have been silenced in midair by my scrutinizing eyes. With red mouths agape, they stealthily **** in air, in lieu of the next chorus, their petals wrapped tight to hide trilling tongues.
They cannot fool me.
From a vase on my table the roses are singing, stars in a theatre of dishes, pots and pans. I havenβt caught them yet for they are secretive and sly. Yet somehow I know this theory to be true.
While I am away or while I am sleeping I know they are singing, shedding their petals like a burlesque singer sheds her clothes. They repeat their song, day after day, night after night, and they will go down singing, dropping from exhaustion as the water runs dry, till the last one withers and dies.