There are manufactured roses – long-stemmed and perfect,
thornless and free of both scent and greenfly.
They are predestined to live their hour in dressing rooms, in boudoirs.
They are extravagance made tangible, shielded by cellophane.
They die before they open.
Real roses tumble their petals onto piano tops and carpets.
They have thorns and too many leaves and smell of summer gardens.
They come with kisses.