Withered Flowers

There is a man riding the rush hour bus with a satchel full of withered flowers.

Are they a symbol? Of failing romance, promises betrayed? Is he carrying them to someone as a message? Will she understand? Has he been sent?

Is he rescuing them perhaps? Does he feel for these creatures, once so loved, and now cast aside? Does he relate?

Are they a treat for a pet?

Are they ingredients for some secret potion, some special drug? Preparations for some satanic rite?

Is he just bad at judging flowers? Has someone sold them to him, pretending they're fresh? Is he on his way to present them to someone, imagining how thrilled they will be, not realizing?

Were they fresh when he bought them? Has he been carrying them around for days, trying to build up his courage?

Does he plan to sell them, maybe make a little cash? Not really sell them, of course, but use them to ask for alms - a reason, an excuse.

There's fennel for you, and columbines; there's rue for you; and here's some for me

And so I come back to you, Ophelia, trapped in the flow of the traffic and the smell of dying flowers.