Arrival Before the Rose Dream Ends

He says he’ll arrive in Portland tomorrow.
It’s his turn to pay—
In the silence before the restaurant opens,
he arrives early.

A self-serve hot pot,
steam rising to fend off winter.
The union of dead volcanoes and roses,
perfect in his mind—
a scene from an Italian art film,
woven into the hum of lobby music.

A couple picks their ingredients.
A spoon stirs the sauce,
like jam stirred by love.

As dusk settles,
the girl arrives
and whispers something behind him.
He answers, “It’s nothing.”
He pays the bill this time and next time.

Months later, in a dream,
the dead volcano erupts,
swallowing the roses,
swallowing his life.

The next morning,
the news reports—
a young man in a Portland apartment,
kissed by death.

He lies on a bed of roses,
silent as a dead volcano.