At a Quaker Meeting

Shaking out raincoats and umbrellas, we file into the perfumed hall. Plush peonies are everywhere, they strain toward us in super-sized bunches, hang from shelves and sills, loll over low shelves. The Quakers sit and fall silent, comfortable hearts bumping into the unknown, as they meditate. My own distracted thoughts leave damp footprints on walls and ceiling, as I listen to a radio blasting in my head. Too wired, I imagine the peonies; their spongy blooms soaking up my leaky mind. I fancy I hear growls of censure as the flowers shake their chunky heads like wet dogs.