“Everything’s a metaphor,” he said,
deadheading the rosebush,
thick gloves protecting him from its spite.
“Is it?” I asked, “Even us?
Are we just a metaphor?”
And though he didn’t look at me,
I saw a smile tilt the corner of his lips
as he nodded.
“Oh yes, especially us,” he said,
pinching off a withered bloom
and dropping it into the dirt.
