ullage*

all the pretty flowers dipped their heads
in the rain, as if worshipping, or
afraid, or cold.
it was difficult for him to tell which
was their main emotion,
as he stood amongst them, wet,
cold, and shivering,
wearing only a t-shirt and
blue jeans, and nothing else. he was
barefooted.
he had just recently turned 26 years old.
he was 6 feet 4 inches
tall, skinny, handsome,
soaking wet and cold. oh, yes,
how well he knew:
spring rains can be very
cold. and this was one of them.
so he stood there shivering,
looking down at the wet bent dripping
flowers. he addressed one of
the daffodils: "i'm thinking
of quitting my job, moving
to a tropical island,
running around naked all
the time, fucking every
boy who wants me."
the daffodil replied: "but,
alas, when
the rain stops, you'll
still be standing here,
won't you? waiting
for me to tell you
what to do."
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man
said: "that would be just
like me, wouldn't it?"
"yes, indeed, it certainly
would," said the wet, smug
daffodil.
the rain continued.
all the flowers
dripped, bent,
looking toward the
earth, as if there
lay the final answer.
"or perhaps i should
just go back inside
and have a drink?"
said the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man.
"yes, do," said the
daffodil. "and then you
should play with yourself:
but don't stick anything
up your butt this time.
that's just gross."
"i promise," said
the 6-foot-4-inch-
tall-skinny-handsome young man,
a twinkle in his eye--for he had
lied before, and
not to just
some goddamned flower.
he left the garden,
and
his footprints quickly filled
up with water,
even his toeprints,
even the prints left
by his little toes, yes,
even those,
as well.

*the amount of liquid within a container that
is lost during shipment or storage.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appears in my book String Bean, published by BareBackPress in 2018. And the poem first appeared in The Commonline Journal, March 10, 2016.)