February 29th
Conflicting smells fill her flat this evening.
Four hundred and thirty-five roses
crowd every surface, every receptacle
pressed into service, even her teapot.
Some stems well past their best,
brown fallen petals litter the place.
A single rose was delivered on the 1st.
Two on the 2nd, three on the 3rd etcetera.
The final twenty-nine were delivered today.
She refused his proposal last year,
but her reservations about his fishy past
have been challenged by all his sweet talk.
He says he’s leaving it up to her,
pointing out this is a Leap Year.
The table is set for two, candles lit,
aromas from the kitchen battling it out
with the whiff of rotting roses.
He’s bound to bring champagne.
The doorbell rings.
I like – crowd every surface – pressed into service. Is leap year and fishy meant as a pun? I think I have made my mind up about this guy and her only excuse is that she must have a cold – you can smell a rat a mile off! It would be fun to do the same poem from his point of view.
Exactly, Sarah. I’m glad you were able to sniff him out, the rotter!
I could be in that flat, very vivid images. Not sure you need the last line, perhaps leave the poem with an air of expectancy… will he, won’t he?