I didn’t think it was possible to ****
a cactus, but I have.
Cactus corpse lies on the
drooping shelf
the spikes, once full of stabs and stings,
now limp and lifeless
(but scars on my fingers
prove it did cut me)
even the lamp misses the cactus’ prickly
presence, refusing to raise its head
rusty radiator moans loudly,
mourning the loss
I don’t think I’ll ever keep a plant again.
disappointment of the death
has left a longer-lasting mark than
scars on my fingers and
I can't bring myself to move
its corpse from the lonely old shelf