What should I do

When I was born
My father bought my mother
A single red rose
With a long stem
For which he was charged extra
And it lays pressed
After all these years
In a book by their bedside

What should I do now
With the white rose
You gave me
That I pressed,
in an empty journal,
whose brown stem sticks out
Like a prodding finger
In the sunlight
On this never used writer’s desk
Facing to guard all the light
of the high windows
Like a ship’s bow

White is for sick people, I said.

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