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The Secret Life of a Florist
Daisy gently grabs a bushel of yellow roses
and carries them to the waiting customer.
The young man pays, full of thanks,
the tiny bells on the door jingling as he leaves.
Daisy adjusts her name-tag,
white with black engraved letters proudly displaying her name.
While she goes around fluffing up the various flowers
of pinks, reds, whites, yellows,
a tiny woman walks in.
this is going to be a long day.
As Daisy locks up the store,
she shoves her sunglasses on.
It was going to be a hot day,
with the sun already blinding.
She stepped into her white Toyota Corolla LE,
and blasts the country station, along with the AC.
Singing along at the top of her lungs,
Daisy almost misses the hidden stop sign on the corner of her block.
Screeching to a halt,
she waits the customary 3 seconds before moving on.
Daisy walks up her cracked driveway,
humming the last song on the radio.
She opens the black door of her white house,
kicking of her shoes in the process.
Daisy grabs a bottle of red wine, a glass,
and heads straight for the couch.
One lone picture stares back at her,
the face of a little girl peering out.
One lone tear glides down Daisy’s face,
as she imagines what that little girl, her little girl, looks like now.
Wondering what her daughter is doing at this moment,
and if she ever thinks about the mother that gave her up.