The Rose, the Homeless, the Flight

There is no point trying to gather roses
when skunkweed has overgrown, strangled,
those fragrant American Beauties.

You till daily until humid air chokes
labored breath never allowing a cry for help,
so the spade is tossed into the bramble,
soon becoming a fine home for the slugs, centipedes
and writhing worms.

The rose remains in glory, though now
calendars do their best to present the past --
the aroma now machine printed, rolling off,
bound and dumped next to the Hallmark's attempt
to keep flowers alive.

Yesterday I watched a man reach into a garbage can,
bringing out a large cup and finishing what remained
through the still present straw as all air conditioned eyes
seemed to be on the Branson shot into the edge of space,
then watched corks come off champagne bottles
and for $250,000 that 30 minute ride could be all yours.

Seems as though most everything has turned grey,
division grows wider but the news reported a cat
was unearthed alive from the Florida rubble and a sliver of blue
tries its best to touch struggling lawns and rose buds
as that homeless man gulps what's left of some liquid
left behind in the searing heat.

Edward Rochester Esq.