MY PURPLE BROMELIAD

BY HARRY WALTZMAN

Valentine’s Day driving past the florist
just opened in Congers, I stopped
and ignored the roses, as too fragile
my wife always forgets to water them.

I spied a strange plant new to my sight,
Rolling back the tin foil covering it’s base,
it was a bromeliad clutching a bowl of sand
and blooming in a strange, subtle way.

all flower, no stem, nothing but leaves.
flat and folded from a pinched center.
After touching the multicolored leaves,
it barked! I bought the plant for $15.

  harry waltzman, poem