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
suck 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 haven’t 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.