Salsatastic.

I am not Madeleine Smythe

but I have taken control of her emotions
and they weigh me down now, dripping

water through my cotton-thin skirt.
The interflora van drives off, gives me

no reason to believe I can ever get caught.
Still, I snip and separate the stems into three

vases: one for tragedy, one for love, one for guilt.
I am not Madeleine Smythe, but maybe, in pretense,

I have saved her from this: Dear Maddy,
I am sorry for your loss.