Mutiny on the Botany

Despite it all, they survive,
at least so far, despite

the best that we can do.
They look contrite

and inconsolable
whenever the weather

turns, and then it’s
clear they’ve

taken us unaware;
roses shoot from the hips.



An umbra was following me, it was neither
late nor early, downtown, yes, yesteryear,
upstairs somewhere a tinny AM
it must have been was playing an old
show tune. There was no one else around,

and you know the slight unease you begin
to feel when there’s no one around, just you
and someone whose intent you cannot
recognize, who was it, I couldn’t tell,
even in the lights from the STOP and WALK,

even as it walked past me, not so close
as to raise a warning, just a normal
walkby passing except that we were
two privileged trespassers on what
otherwise would have been an empty street.

Even so, I turned right at the next
corner, wedging a right angle between
me and my pursuer. And then, nothing
more, not much else, just, you know, the boats
and from somewhere astern a siren.



We’re far too fragile,
like ancient works on paper

or you right now,
unwilling to travel,

as if a line beyond
our limits would unwind

the brave and fulsome
chants of alarm clocks

that urge us out
here go, right now

an unhinged door.


Photo by Pixabay