If there were a few plaques
placed in random order
next to my flower pots,
would that make them
party to the larger injustice
the blooms highlight?
Life, indeed, is a collection
of epitaphs in stale air,
some lost in the attic,
some to the vagaries of
destructive rebuilding,
and many among flowers...
... In random order,
the notions gather grime,
my dog chases squirrels around them.
His present, mine too,
and the world stays
shrouded in smog.
-- Leslie
No comments:
Post a Comment