Plucking Petals in a Garden of Misgivings
Love is a garden.
But not every bloom is beautiful.
Late last night my sweetheart sowed
a sinister seed from far away; somewhere
she wasn't supposed to be.
Fertilized by her slurred-filled call,
the gut-gnashing phrase he's just a friend,
and nourished further by the sight of her driveway -
empty at six a.m. this morning -
the seed has blossomed thoughts of the worst,
their vine-like stems strangling my sanity,
the endless doubts like petals of paranoia.
Pluck!
She's cheating!
Pluck!
She's not.
Pluck!
I know she's cheating!
Pluck!
Everything is fine.
Pluck!
Pluck!
Pluck!
Pluck!
So go the sounds of that prelude the fall -
the forthcoming of a killing freeze.


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You ended on the pluck for "everything is fine", but the poem leaves me feeling like the question is still not really resolved. That last series of pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck feels like it could go on longer, if only the hapless flower had more petals.