Don't Give Me Flowers

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Some devilish thoughts from a poet.

Don't Give Me Flowers

For my sixtieth, I want wire cutters.
I’ll leave blank-faced city crowds
cut through constraining fences
paddle in forbidden streams.
I want a heavy hammer
to flatten my vacuum cleaner.
I’ll leave cast off clothes, outdated papers
to procreate in haphazard heaps.
I want scissors
to rip strips from my sensible skirts,
hoist them as rebellious flags
proclaim myself a free woman.
Don't send flowers, the poet is in revolt.
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