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Back in November of 1990, while I was living and working in the Silicon Valley and was surrounded by overly-intelligent, socially-awkward programmers and techie-type people, I wrote this poem (as a joke) for a friend, based on what I imagined what kind of flowers those people would give to someone they liked. I mean, if you think about it, the person giving the fake flowers does make some salient points.

Photo copyright (c) 2014 by Steve Pool. All rights reserved.



By Me

(c) 1990

Her friend had given flowers

and said they would not wilt,

because of polyethylene

from which, she’s told, they’re built.

“The color’s kind of grainy,”

she said cavilly unbridled.

“Where else is beauty found,” he asked,

“in something that’s recycled?”

“There is no scent,” her next complaint,

“no fresh and fragrant air.”

“With all the shots from allergies,

for you, I thought I’d spare.”

“It isn’t soft against my touch,

rough petals do adorn.”

“Tis true regret,” he then replied,

“to be stabbed by barb or thorn.”

He said she should be grateful,

judged like a swinging gavel,

until next week when he chipped a tooth

on her cookies baked with gravel.

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