Dead Roses

All of my hopes in those flower pots And you They died, just like that. I’ve not had roses die like that. Granted, I bought them almost dead. I am not trying to make a comparison, however. Out there the dead roses are all still in those pots. Out there is you. I was sick right after those roses died. Injured really. I could barely walk or move. The pain was a 9. I thought you’d take care of me, come over and make me Lie down. Tell me to sleep. Tuck the covers up around my neck. Bring me ice. Something. You didn’t do that. You read my new magazines though, fresh from the mailbox. The New Yorker. I never get to read it. I cleaned up the kitchen and scooped the litter boxes while you sat fresh And proper in my bed. It took me so long to do the before bed chores because I couldn’t really bend. The pain. I did not sleep that night because the pain was unbearable. We have this problem. I work really hard. I have to. Working hard is my thing though. There aren’t many opportunities to step-in. Then the roses died. Then my injury. It’s not your fault. I do find it sort of like those roses I planted – Dying on me. You could work hard at something.