I bought these wooden roses from a man 

sitting behind a plastic table outside of a gas station.

He asked me how many and I peered at the hastily made flowers.

I think of you.

The hamilton in my hand shakes as I say,

“Whatever this will get me.”

Only, I know it will never be enough, not when the pain of losing you 

radiates from the carvings. 

The man hands me a bundle of pink roses.

Your favorite color. 

I place the flowers in my passenger seat and return home, to the place 

you raised me. Sitting on your bed, the new flowers in my lap

I wonder why I stopped, why I spent my cash on something I’ll never use.

Then, I think of you.

Dad had said he saw a man outside a gas station 

“They’re hand carved!” my hopeful father said as you laid 

in a white room surrounded by beeping machines. 

I watched the wooden roses radiate in their vase 

for weeks on end

while you withered away. 

Ten dollars, for a lifetime of pain and

of beauty. A lifetime of your favorite color.

Ten dollars, for a lifetime of thinking of you.