White Rose
The trashcan in the bathroom
contains a white rose —
a tissue crumpled,
dew drops of tears.
Deception of a first glance,
then the eyes clear,
unlike the fragrant wish
that blooms in the imagination
and shuts the door
against the noise of the street.
The white rose alone
in a vase of glass
hears the ticking clock,
does not judge the shadows
that move across the room.
Patient monotony
of the nightlight, irrelevant,
as morning rays breach
the pessimistic curtains
of night-time thoughts
© 2007 Richard Sidy