The theatre is closed in the morning
but outside is a florist
so I watch him
wrap stems in paper and twine
No gloves on
The back of the van is open
and he has almost gotten rid of them
All the old stalks from yesterday

Rings run
around his eyes
but he picks his way lightly between clients
Between regulars with empty hands
and non-regulars un-fastening bags
As if a bank note being discretely slipped
from one palm to another to another
He is slim
Not noticeably so
just as if nobody expected more or less of him

From this great distance
I'm wondering about it
Imagine one day
he comes home to me and says
There is nothing more I want than this

He gestures to the tulips
that look out from a bucket, bunched
in the passenger seat of the van
To his apron
To his diary with nothing in
and I say
That's perfectly fine
Perfectly alright
Perfectly without the need to tell me
all the time

We're standing in the drive
I push the porch door
The front door
and three breaths later
the door to the downstairs bathroom
It has been primed for a year
without paint on
I pull up the sash window
Feeling the throbbing heat
from the engine of the van
I cry
and because it's night
he can see me
like a screen