Dead Flowers

The florist section of the grocery store has exploded
And I’ve decoded this strange phenomenon to be a trap
Bridging the gap between men who had romance planned
And those who ran out for a dozen eggs.  I understand
That it’s appropriate to buy flowers
But held under the powers
Of those inflated prices,
This crisis of whether or not I should buy roses plays in my head.
In a week’s time, I’m out fifty bucks and they’re dead.