It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us — Robert Haas
Breaks my heart to see that smile
and know it’s not for me.
I know better than to play at make-believe
but I still miss the fantasy
of being more than good enough.
Every day I march past thick bromeliads in the tower’s lobby:
Deep-green and hothouse-reared,
rubbed twice weekly with Shultz’s Leaf-Shine polish
by a man who spends his breaks napping in the service elevator,
wilting slowly in a sterile breeze.