Walking fresh in the morning,
watching for the brightly-stitched and
quilted grass parrots
that congregate under the she-oaks
like scattered pin-cushions,
I take the downhill path
through Trinity Park,
(the flora, the sun, and the old lamp-post),
and, as usual, look up to admire
the unctuous and fleshy cups
perched inscrutably,
like tiny buddhas, on the magnolia tree.
One fat and fulsome flower is almost within reach-
I could pick it, but...

only yesterday, I stole one home
and dropped it in a tumbler beside my bed.
The lemon stink of its innards was beyond bearing,
so that I had to banish the thing
outside my door
to the cold corridor.
And, this morning,
now contemplating the stealing of
that oiled and fecund bloom,
I remember the bloated and blowsy one,
now loose-leaved and besmirched
at the edges.
Soon, within hours,
it will be discarded and moulting...
finally, a mess of singed paper,
like the edges of the crumpled maps
we ruthlessly tea-stained and scorched at school.

It makes me realize why
I should have left you alone,
quietly blossoming obese on your
breakable branch,
instead of wanting so hard
and taking.
It makes me realize how
I should have walked away,
instead of reaching a greedy hand to snap! you,
waxy leaves and all
from your shaded bower.