Imagine eleven purple roses
in a cloisonné vase
on the flashing dashboard
of a pretty city bus
plush seats in a circle
and a porter in tails
who serves martinis
from a round-topped tray
and sings in German
beautifully.
Your stop is in just above
the third floor of the bank,
you think a song and
out you glide on a sled
into the hot snow above you.
Ruthie: You think hot snow needs fixing but you let the dude sing beautifully in German?
Liz: That link is a perfect complement to this poem. LOL.

Also, this edit to the piece: Your stop is in just above -- please ignore the word "in."
Buk wrote a thoughtful piece that asked how many roses we can see before it becomes a field. I thought my limit was ten. Eleven, I couldn't really picture exactly how that would look. So from there, a flight of fancy, of other things just strange enough that I couldn't picture them.