I swear I can't look around at this
deteriorated world anymore,
with its overabundance
of chintzy floral prints.
Even at their best, these patterns
tend to invoke a certain
pointlessness—but the problem
only worsens
after they've faded.
Take those bedraggled
poinsettias on your
dishtowels, for instance;
or the mauve roses
in their mauve rows
on the two dusty
armchairs we
found in your attic;
or the discolored daisies
in a picture I'm not
so sure I want languishing
here in my memory
much longer—of your hand-
me-down backless
hospital gown.
