Everywhere I go, they have above the concrete, in baskets, blasted by the sun for 18 hours a day & they still look like they just stepped out of a refreshing shower. I see them in large copper or metal drums being cooked alive & they don’t wilt, whimper, whine. They look as though God created them from tissue paper, but have the strength & endurance of titanium. Until I get them to my house, droopy as I take them out of the trunk, coughing & fainting from the execration of being moved from the tables sitting above the concrete parking lot at Lowes to my house. I plant them in the very best dirt (gosh, I’m an ass) money can buy. I put them in 12 hours of sun & in a week all the leaves are gone. Their stems look like the elbows & knees of a 6 foot tall 13 year old with one pathetic, pink saran wrap hanging on to life by sheer stupidity.
So I just take pictures of Petunia wherever I go & if no one is looking, whisper in their ears, “stuck up snob!” See, what I figure, no one ever comes to my house by choice & the petunia is a popularity seeking little brat. I am beneath its notice & nobody loves me, so I’m gonna go eat dirt. Not really, maybe a yogurt or something…
I’m gonna go tell my wholly flowers that do like me, that I like them too.
