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Carnation Stand
by Dawn Coutu

He thrummed piano key ribs, while listening
to his grandmama. I knew because he stopped sudden,
then bought one flower from me. His fingers picked up again
after paying. I whispered to him, I can see

freckles through your beard. He rambled off, torn
coattails in tow. After my shift, I waltzed through city alleys
and thought, isolation is driving a dirt road, collapsing

on a sunken couch. I pictured him again
at a standstill; the exchange spliced my lungs. Grandmama readied
her final solo under her proud crabapple. I appeared behind

our cottage forsythia, prepared to ask her
a question. I shielded my view
from the axe blow and learned to see with sewn lips.