Who Is Your Favourite Dead Person?
— Mary Ruefle
The flowerseller on the corner
I passed every day when I was fifteen
and lived in the foreign capitol.
She was huge, everything was huge
in those days, my eyes bulged daily,
she sat on a stool in her smock
surrounded by a couple of buckets
of whatever was in season, a posy
of violets perchance, the stuff
of roses, long-stemmed spider mums,
hard to tell from her face if she
was begging or offering me something,
I had no life, I had no money, later
when I did I remembered her
and realized she was dead, she had
to be, I stopped what I was doing,
I think I bent down, there she was,
she was always there, it was her
I passed every day.
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