Bin flowers hit me like a cold shower's worth of truth. Remind me of Ruth. The girl with curls with whom I wanted to whirl and to dance and to prance across town in her best night/ball gown. My advances she assigned to a bin, her affections I could not win. But what of this scene? Who? What? Today. Here. How? I wanted to help right now. Traced the flowers to the florist, asked them was it a tourist? No, an office worker, a regular, no shirker. They even knew which one, thought my task would be easily done but they wouldn’t talk to me about it, walked away all clouded. Until the fifth day I tried to block their way (metaphorically) when they shouted, sprayed and spouted, “Look, they didn’t turn up, only texted, I had burned it all, really messed it. Maybe I should have given them away, but my mind was all in a fray; I took love for granted, didn’t care for it and I lanced it.” So these bin flowers were wasted by someone who was too hasty. But what about yours?
