Centerpieces at the Inn by James B. Nicola

In the lobby, twelve bell jars of potpourri,

one on each table, greet the guested world,

their burrs, cones, stems and leaves, uniformly

blue, as they’ve been dyed, the dried leaves, curled.

One guest grunts a comment about the bell jar

at the last vacant table, takes his place

for breakfast, and is joined. A foreigner,

he is not understood. And yet his face

shines like the rest’s, reflecting leaves and burrs.

Two ladies have applied blue eye shadow

and scented themselves like the conifers,

whose heirs they’ll feed one day, like all the guests,

in random forests or a cultured row,

between their travels and their good nights’ rests.