Misadventures at Tulips Are Better Than One.

Dear Quentin,

You remember that gardening store, Tulips Are Better than One? So I had to go there for your  stupid garden and arghhhh!

I walked into the dirt strewn store
With a shopping list in hand.

The people in Tulips Are Better Than One
Were not what I had planned.

My vision, what I had seen
Was a cute little garden store
With a nice old lady manning the desk
And some flower pots on the floor.

Some plastic birds on the ceiling
Sunlight streaming through the door
Not crusty windows with dirt on the sills
And Paris Hilton times four.

They were lurking all over the store,
With nail files and hair ties and bows
Paris One was sitting on the counter
Looking through Facebook Posts

Paris Two was tanning on the porch
With flip flops on her feet
Flipping through Vogue magazine
And drawing on her jeans


Paris Three near the ceramic
Chattering to herself
Paris Four with  bejeweled gnomes
Yes, them as well.

I approached the counter
Tapped gently on the bell
The little clang rang through the room
It startled me as well!

But Paris One just kept on texting
Do her thumbs have the strength of a whale?
I tapped the bell, yet again
Alas, to no avail. 

The one outside (at last!) looked up
Rather  grumpily,
Snaps on her gum, picked up her mag
And stomped over to me.

"Yeah, kid?" she asks,
 Nails tapping the counter,
I stutter (oh-so gracefully)
"I have some plants I need to water"

"No duh, doll, we all do."
Says the one beside the gnomes,
"You'll need some fertilizer, too."
She tossed me a bag, then moans.

"My nails!" she screams, and waves her hand.
"That STUPID dirt got on it!"
The others gather around her
While her gentle tears dry on it.

"IT"S JUST A NAIL!" I scream,
I throw the can to the floor,
"And, ugh! It  is garden store!
Why would you cry about it?"

"It was a perfect manicure! We'd all weep about it!"
I groan and grab my purchased goods,
And march right out the door.
And desert the Hiltonites
In that forsaken garden store!

Love,                                                                                                                   
Tate

PS: You know I don't title my poems- like, 10 years from now, people will just have to read through a pile of poems labeled things like  "Free Verse 13" like Shakespeare makes them do. 
Free Verse