On my desk in the corner,
beneath the Van Gogh self-portrait,
the one with those eyes
that stare into the very fiber
of your being,
those eyes that lust for life,
like the cats mating
in the alley at midnight.
There is a tall glass vase
that holds autumn.
Orange maple leaves,
deep maroon flowers,
all waiting for the season
to catch up.
Outside my window,
the trees are mostly green.
October is beginning to blink its eyes
with the amber hues
and raw umber hush.
I watch two squirrels chasing each other
through the last mown grass
of the season.
The flowers are plastic.
They won\'t dry up,
won\'t drop their leaves,
and I don\'t need to water them.
They\'ll look like autumn
through February\'s blizzards,
through the false thaw
of January.
Sure, I might have to dust them
occasionally,
but nothing like digging in the dirt
by the sweat of my brow.
I sit here looking at the thing,
wondering what it means
to keep something beautiful
that never had to live.
And I wonder what it would be like
to never have been born.