crushed by its beauty

this thing is hard, living with foreknowlege.
you ask yourself if it's time to get out
now before the roots grow deeper
or you let yourself be fooled into
believing in anything except
transience. the roses bloom on the red
bush outside the lunchroom. when i
harvest them, there are fungoidal mothlike
creatures, small black bugs, brittle
thorns. carpenter ants like toy tonkas
over the luscious smell, the velvety petals
2ybf talks on the phone to his mother
about his rockstar dream, how in two years
he plans to hit the road, make it real.
i replace tuesday's roses with today's.
the vase my son gave me for valentines'
day has a clear heart molded into its body.
i sweep yesterday's petals from the counter
smell them briefly, add them to the withered collection.