Two sonnets

1
Where it is, or the specifics:
Those new libraries, the ones built
With corporate space, for coffee before 10.
On one table, at least one,
An orchid, bought at the local
Hy-Vee on the block, by a woman who loves flowers
On one table.
I choose that table, not for the orchid
But the outlet, on the brick pillar.

What happened, or the transition:
I, of course, ordered a steamer,
The name and ingredients less pretentious
And kosher, so to speak.
A 12-ounce to-go cup, like a hyphen
Between the flower and my computer,
Like a paper jar of anecdotes.

2
The question, or the orchid itself:
Monopodial plants move upward
And leave their aerial roots
To tangle, dry, and expand backward,
Defying parallel shoots.
The stem needs hairpins, with a tasteful pole
To hold its tasteless vaudeville pedals
Up, a Viagra of women's accessories
Supporting some sort of delicate visual threat.

The answer, or the poem:
Perhaps what you think of an orchid
Reveals something about you, like reading an inkblot.
I didn't mention the big base leaves earlier
Because their thick parallel veins need dusting.