Mrs Brown comes every Tuesday,

To pick up her daisies.

Two pounds and a kiss to pay

me in pursed fees.

I wrap the stems in paper,

smile but wipe my lips after.

It doesn’t offend her

she redoes her cherry red in laughter.

She leaves the shop,

Bell ringing her goodbye.

I don’t know that her kisses will stop,

No pennys for time to buy.

A lady died on the corner of the street,

My mum told me when I got back.

She laughed into her daises at her last beat,

Daisies scattered along the tire track.

Policeman took off her coat,

Felt in her pockets,

Hundreds of dead flowers squashed in her tote,

Saving them for the moon landing rockets.