Leaning over, conspiratorial,

he starts the conversation.

“In a world full of roses,

be a cannon ball,” he says.

Heavy silence.

A lady in a floral dress sidles away.

Someone coughs.

He leans closer.

“Think about it.

Everyone loves a rose,

but they aren’t a nice flower,

are they?”

He pauses, staring.

Waiting for a response.

A barely imperceptible nod is all he needs.

“Roses are nasty, nasty flowers.

Some might even say arseholes.

They just sit there, idly,

getting all the praise for just being.

Have you noticed how they simper,

enticing passers-by,

just to jab them with a thorn.”

He shakes his head.

Disgusted.

“Nasty.”

The road in front stretches,

inexorably, endlessly, emptily.

Not a bus in sight.

Help.

“My hot take on it is that” -

more shuffles,

more coughs,

the safety in numbers shambles away -

“…cannon balls get an unfair rap.

It’s all that war that humans like.

When you really think about it -

canon balls make impact.

They aren’t destructive.

More like,

movers and shakers.

Doers.

Explosive. Implosive.

Imperfect, sure.

But they make a bang.”

He chuckles to himself.

No one stands nearby now.

For interminable minutes,

the man ploughs on.

“Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Roses suck.

You love cannon balls though,

don’t you?”

He doesn’t let up.

“What’s in a name?

Not much.

That which we would call a rose,

by any other name

would still suck.

Montagues and Capulets aren’t the enemy.

Roses are.

But, how great are canon balls?”

With no end in sight, a bus finally appears.

Not your bus.

But his.

A blessed miracle.

As he steps away,

without a goodbye,

a short glimpse of a blue logo,

perched on the edge of a laptop bag,

provides answers to unasked questions.

Canonfire Armament Co.

Just a job,

at a company.

Not insanity, then.

Or maybe, just the socially acceptable,

societally engineered kind.