What does this poem mean?

The flowers sent here by mistake,


signed with a name that no one knew,


are turning bad. What shall we do?


Our neighbor says they're not for her,


and no one has a birthday near.


We should thank someone for the blunder.


Is one of us having an affair?


At first we laugh, and then we wonder.





The iris was the first to die,


enshrouded in its sickly-sweet


and lingering perfume. The roses


fell one petal at a time,


and now the ferns are turning dry.


The room smells like a funeral,


but there they sit, too much at home,


accusing us of some small crime,


like love forgotten, and we can't


throw out a gift we've never owned.

What does this poem mean?
Someone sent a flower to the wrong place, and they don't know what to do with it, so they just leave it there to die.





Sad really. :(
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