Something like a heater should
hold all the answers
or a desktop of plain noise.
Maybe the truckman who smelt
of crotch and rosy afternoons
cooped up in his Buick,
pulsing his palms next to playgrounds,
trying to free his trunk feelings
from his body
his salty expectations in extreme old age,
his manageable desperation.
He’d explain how rose pedals still fall,
even upside-down to dry
and how the stem is important anyway.
