It’s Saturday, and it’s Alice in Wonderland all over again: “Off with their heads! Off with their heads!” the shrill voice cries out at the flower shop. Someone must have flour up their nose, someone has eaten one orchid too many, I suppose. You lose your eggs in the furrow, nothing good can come of that. Me, I suppose that the smell and the thick, sticky air in the oven-hot shop—where the flowers stand and shrivel in their pots, pooled with sweat—are the actual culprits. Me, I’m having none of this: no funeral wreaths for me today, no metaphorical roses in my poems! I’m off to the corner hardware shop, where there are forks on sale, enough for a bouquet.