A drunk man waltzes shirtless past the bus stop,
flickering in the June air, orange-tanned, stumbling.
He drank a bottle of flowers, every petal is a sweet word
to slur for the girls with cheeks like roses, eyes of thorns,
but still he pours and pours, give me fucking thank you. 
His blue eyes blur down the street, tripping home to nowhere,
and in the morning the light is sour, the sun comes up grenadine.
And there is a time when that man is not drunk, but never free,
and he sits on the sill like a window-box of petunias, smoking,
 looking down at his life, his hands, hands who have ripped apart 
daisies, daisies that left no stain, no red to scrub from his teeth.
Not like the wine, not like the endless solace of pharmacies,
just a sweet scent of spring. Sorry falls like sundown’s color,
just something to sense, but never tangible enough, the night air
is only his own breath echoing. He is good. But he could be
other things too. Staring past himself to the garden, pondering
if it is worse that he does not know what he has done.