The roses were lost on the top of the little table.
All familiar to this swore the flowers were there somewhere,
With their stems, leaves, and thorns.
It seems like an impossible hiding place to me,
My last choice if I were the roses or the person
Who hid the roses. There are people who are lost,
You can see them the same in their bodies as when they were tanned,
And happy, now tanned and downtrodden and taking the local
Through life. Roses may be lost in that sense too,
But in their case they may not be seen as your miserable friend
May still be seen. The lost roses become invisible, stems and thorns too,
But no one dares smash his hand on the table,
Over every square inch of the little table,
Just to find them, though they are there and we know it.