Flecks of black dirt dot
the skin beneath his bottom lip
as he holds aloft
the pink geranium,
by the blooms,
its white ceramic pot
nearly empty on the cement step.
He is proud: “Look!”
“Look!”
How many times have I grabbed a moment
by its bloom and yanked it
straight up and out of its cozy place,
letting the roots dangle in the air,
leaving the pot nearly empty
and feeling prideful: “See,
see!”?

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