The future tempts like a gardenia
browning around the edges,
fragrance ripening into the
sweet rot of old bananas,
unappealing to look at but
overripe with potential,
add rum and flambé
for a favorite dessert,
concluding a sumptuous feast
that sits too heavy on the stomach,
edging toward repeating,
egged on by the tantalizing,
sickening smell of the
favorite flower, the
gardenia on the table
that will have to be thrown out
tomorrow.
