Not enough time to smell the flowers

A mid-day break
in the escalation
lost somewhere along the way
in our great nation:

The vacation station
swells with tourists.
“Take Route 2, it’s new,”
said the florist.
“To make the vibration
in your cranium drainium.”
As the man flowered,
Charlotte glowered.
I looked at her with mine eyes,
eyes that looked rather soured.
“He arranges flowers,
we’re short on hours,
so listen to what the man sayeth!
Let’s boogie nowers!”
My quick-thinking
hop-scotching
brain
bewildered
the women behind the glower.
“The man who arranges flowers
does not empower me
to devour your idea
so we are not going to do
1000 kilometers per hour
based on what some florist explains
is his extrapolating flower-power-hour.”

She looked at the clock on the church tower
to try to decipher
the time.
“Turn away!” I beckoned.
“You see,” I said,
“the time is all but mine.
All the Gods do is combine
the divine
with a little ground pine
a little jug wine
softly on the love line,
to create what we call Time.”

“McDavid , you’re overrated,”
Charlotte stated.
“Let me tell you about time,” she reinstated.
“Time is nothing but
a fated
yet jaded
slow roll
through a downgraded
un-persuaded
and unaided
cylinder of lost dimension, McFlavid.”

The florist put to suspension
his flowers and incited his insight:
“Don’t mention the time pension
with this ill-fated beautician.
Time is nothing but tension,
You blind gentian.
I hold you in contention.
Look’s like we’ll need to hold a clock convention.
Here’s the skinny, skinny:
Time is nothing but an invention
by you dim-witted beings—
is your brain doing it’s job in retention?
Your parents should have used better birth prevention.”

Char asked the florist politely
but forthrightly mockingly slightly:
“I’m sorry good sir, but can I PLEASE have the time?”
And he said back with a whine:
“You snotty little tourist,
Don’t try to spite me,
I’m a purist
and you’re the poorest
surest-loser looking tourist.
Now leave my store
and go back to the forest, Dolores.”

Charlotte and I looked at each other
bewildered and shocked,
this man who was once offering his hand
has made our brains all chicken-pocked.
How dare such a florist who holds life’s beauty in stock
Insult my fair lady like I do with my sweaty/smelly sock.
With the thought and smell fresh,
I did what I must,
I took my sweaty/smelly sock
and with it I locked
the sock in my fist
and unloaded on him a punch,
so ungraceful… I missed.

And I fell to the floor
and my eyes looked out the window of the store
and saw the tourists all watching.
I felt like a loser-galore.

But my beauty sweet Charlotte
was about to soar.
And settle the score.

After pausing to smile,
And file the insult in her brain book of bile
The sweet girl looked at the florist
and then yelled to the tourists:
“Architecturally beguiled,
it’s with perpendicular style
that this geographic little mile
is the perfect condition for growing flowers
suck as the ‘lily of the nile’!
My dear florist friend here
has asked for friends well-wishers and all
to help create soil
so he can continue to profit
and so his business doesn’t spoil.
So please assist me and my partner McDavid
to assist our dear florist with soil
and enter the store,
pull ye pants down
and drop a big shit coil
to help them man’s business broil!
An atomic pile of bile!
Yes that’s it,
on the counter
on the floor
on the man’s face
it’s a race!”

Char and I left and took slow Route 9
while the florist had lots of time
to think about time
as he cleaned up the brown slime
scattered through his store
and forever fresh on his mind.