surprise
every time I open the refrigerator,
there’s a cold red rose there
in a purple wineglass

milk and carbonated water
and that bulb that only lights
when the door’s pulled wide

a floppy raw chicken breast
submerged in salad dressing
marinating on a dark glass shelf

and yet a flower can wait for me
and claim this deep red beauty
with its stem clipped so short

I love my you.