by W.S. Brewbaker
Even the flowers have grown stale,
darling, the grass cheap and flimsy.
The trees are a sham and the leaves
just dust. What I’m trying to say is
I’ve left the back door unlocked
and, should you come home,
I’ll be upstairs, watering
the cut hydrangeas, waiting.
W.S. Brewbaker is a 3rd-year student at the University of Virginia. He was born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gyroscope Review, After Happy Hour Review, and Lost Coast Review, among others.