Flowers
              Fat Chance was waiting at the entrance to her
heart. He wouldn’t let me pass.
              “I was sent,” I protested.
              “So were we all.”
              “I brought flowers.”
              “Is it love,” he scoffed, “to tear at the breast?”
              “But the scent. The colors . . . ”
              “I see blood,” Fat Chance said.
              “I meant no harm.”
              “I see a fool.”
              “Is it foolish,” I pleaded, “to love?”
              Fat Chance smiled.
              “You carry your love like flowers.”