The Iris

I didn’t want to throw out
the purple iris, wilting on the table.
Is it any less beautiful in its withering
state? Entropy surrounds us, both
in our late sixties: old house, frayed rug
at the kitchen sink, old boots, flannel
shirt, thread-bare at collar and cuffs.
Will anyone notice past the gray hair,
fallen mouth and double chin, that I
have a new hairstyle, am wearing
skinny jeans? I decided to keep the iris
hospiced on the table. Celebrated
its aging beauty with tea and toast.