Picking up pot plants.

The lavender stink
blows through the window
and it makes my eyes weep.
I didn't mean to cut them down,
as you planted them there.

Stars fill the skies and collapse
at your sick-scented demise.
Throw salt over my shoulder as I'm ever unlucky,
and roll another cigarette to address your
final leave.

I think I may grow a mustache,
just to feel the slug against my upper lip
and paint the slender of your face
after curls cascade,
I never did like a perm
as I wash them out
and let a friend blow-dry you right out of my hair.

Think I should shave today.