Grave robbing

Carnations are best. Or roses,

tight, before they go blowsy.

Daffodils last. Tulips are no good — 

go limp soon as you look at ’em.

Lilies are OK, but mark us with rust

you can’t shift. Mam asks

too many questions. We leave the lilies.

Doug and me — we’re quick.

When the earth is fresh we circle in

to harvest. This is our meadow.

Stem first into plaggy bags we ribbon

from our pockets, then off, running

the back way to the village.

To the florist, past wreaths

and In Memoriams, where the old lady

will peer at our haul, sniff,

mebbe give us change from her pouch.

Her sleeve is more snot-streaked than mine.

And nails blacker.

Some days Mam says she don’t understand

why I leave me tea but other times

I’ve hollow legs. I shrug.

Tongue the toffee in a back tooth.