​On the corner of 12th and Vine, under a yellow umbrella, pretty Mae sells buds and blooms, arranged with tender touch.
 

Business blossoms. Customers increase. Inventory sprouts, spilling out of her pushcart, twining into Vine.
 

Traffic snarls; drivers snarl.
 

Orders are given. “Clear the street.”
 

Mae may or may not comply.
 

Decides not.
 

Fines ensue. Police pursue.
 

Mae amazes, gathering her vases and stems by the dozens.
 

She proudly announces, “You’ll never catch us.”
 

Then steps into 12th before the oncoming bus.
 

Number 5 barreled on, boarding Mae head on.
 

So, Mae’s given up roses. 
 

She’s now pushing up daisies

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