Wilting

Weekend visits

once upon a time,

wintery Wednesday nights for a while,

later to be eaten alive by the Summer sun,

the smell of the factories,

the grease on your hands.

My father used to call me bud,

but his seed never really sprouted,

wilting beneath sunshine and drowning in thin waters,

relying on the highness from capsules

to get by.

In Kane, Rosebud was a word

hidden away in a locket, in something

even deeper than that could ever be,

locked behind Welles’ ribcage, deeper,

deeper.

When Dad’s precious truck was stolen,

a plastic remnant remained or was found

or maybe grown with love

and became my favourite object,

carried around in scratched and tearing denim pockets

when we’d play from sunrise onwards

in the construction site nearby,

as though this tiny fragment may bring the whole vehicle back.

I remember my excitement when

my first stubble grew

because the subtle scratch of stubble

always reminded me of you,

and I remember eating dinner

cross-legged on your front garden,

the fake grass slightly scratchy

while you dozed off on the sofa,

robots battling on the screen before you

made uninteresting, bland

by the sleepiness of over-time.

I’d lose focus outside and stare off,

the building site shrinking,

the ecstatic yellow sky beginning to dim

fading, fading

away into nothing,

my two much needed nurturers

painfully absent.

These days the sky is grey and your chair

has been empty for longer

than it was ever full

in the first place.

When I re-trace my weary steps,

I see clearly where the stem snapped

I see where the colour was drained, where

it was purposefully washed away,

the vivid paints eaten alive

and now your flower wilts

drowning in some puddle

somewhere,

unseen.