Rosebud

Smoke from my cigarette curls up
towards the branches of the trees,
bare save for the February ferns
that sprout like hair from their damp crevasses.
It's a dry, clear night, and I stand
in the park across from the museum,
still in my uniform, staring up
at the the deep blue
of the early evening sky, dotted with stars
like the dandruff I brush
from the shoulders of my navy blue blazer.
A street punk with the prerequisite pit bull
limps past me, muttering
"Wuntsumbud, man? Ennybud, man?"
I shake my head, flicking my butt
into the dirt at the base
of a nearby rosebush
which shivers as it waits
much more patiently than I do
for spring.