Be a dear for Mrs. Joan
Sat at home all day alone
Tend the flower
Watch it grow
Your godly deeds are sure to show
An old apartment down the block
Carved from cliff side
Bathed in rock
Encased in timeless, stilted shock
Ticked off by the clicking
Of a grandfather clock
Accents, tastes becoming fond
From worlds that lie so far beyond
I, with bated breath, respond
Juxtaposed by island fronds
Beginning shakes
A tainted knock
Rooms of colors run amok
A faded view of heaven blocks
A woman’s hand in waiting stalks
Crooked looks adorn her face
A sash hangs limp against her waist
Pearls and rubies caked in paste
From passion projects long erased
Slack in cracks of aging pores
Tempted eyes that yearn for more
Dreams of days in shining yore
Pull her mind beyond the shore
Sounds come bouncing down the hall
As if a rushing waterfall
But take a look
There’s none at all
Further down like digging moles
Falling into rabbit holes
A single flower fills the scene
And beige, erratic sound machines
Pulsing off in static screams
Click
Silence
No one’s there
No more sirens in the air
The flower slumps without a care
In raspy groans
Muted tones
Throwing looks like guided stones
At last a word from Mrs. Joan,
“I’ll pay you fair
With crisp dollar bills
A hard day’s work
For the tulip you killed”
