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Flowers

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Jim Gott and old money don’t mix. There is
no possibility of change. He sent flowers
to the old lady, to no avail. Then he fought
the Chinese laundry over the disputed crease
in his last clean shirt sent by ups; the Chinaman
got a court order that he not be so called.
He makes peanuts: Jim’s thousand a year is viewed
as a decent living: you figure it out.

Old Gott was taken to court, a kind of
maze synod, that September, ornamental
cherry petals littering the streets.
Thirty-eight years later the charge sheet tells us
that he was called The Fiendish. In the distant
future, I shall be as efficient as you.


Source: Poetry (December 2010)

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This poem originally appeared in the December 2010 issue of Poetry magazine

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Flowers

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