My First "Epic" Poem

Originally intended as a short story, it evolved into my longest poem. Very detail-centric, it's not about gardens though. It's up to you to decide what the garden of wilted roses symbolises.

Garden of Wilted Roses

There you stood,

standing there behind the deli’s revolving doors,

behind your bespectacled thin frame,

fingers resting on glass, breath

exhaling slowly in an icy mist.

Staring, staring across the curtain of rain,

the magical slow-motioned frame-by-frame

winding of each drop as it ricocheted

from the heavens.

Your mind, no doubt fooling you. It couldn't be me.
Or was it me, motionless across the street where

the cars ploughed, in a swirl of h2o, although I

should have been miles away somewhere in a

garden of oaks, writing this? You turn away in denial.

I can already imagine you rolling your eyes in self-pity,

collapsing in a heap onto the stool as you almost fall

over the manager tending to a complaint. The manager

has that typical New York gruffness to him but in it

you can only see mine staring back.

The cracks on the walls suddenly have outlines

of my face etched into them and the laughter of

two adults having a conversation brings back

memories of our cafe escapades long past.

Maybe you can't help feeling lonely, being that far

away from friends, alone in a four-seater table

reading Nora Roberts, but it’s likely to be

MORE than just that.

Perhaps the hope that you will meet

me at the next street corner even though

I won't be there.

You rush out the door as a customer walks in

soggy converse meets muddy puddles of

asphalt and grime.
It was a hallucination, a mirage.

You stand there in the rain as water dribbles down

your face in silent defeat, vocal chords straining against

the sound of crackling thunder and crow calls. People

look at you like "she's an embarrassment to America"

but you don't seem to care.

Your arms flailing and tearing at your hair,

frustrated

beyond

all

reckoning.

But then again, you've probably moved on,

having fun with your new catch somewhere,

probably Hawaii (I got your postcard, thank you very much),

while I sit in a garden of wilted roses writing this.