ripped the flowers
from that sidewalk pot
for the eleventh time
since living here.
Still his careful hand
plucks the remnants of the roots
while the other holds a cigarette
he'd rather not be smoking.
We're drowning in the rays
of spoiled weekend sunlight
too bright for our four eyes
unwillingly enlightened.
It's partially the color
though mostly due to shape.
David's humble slingshot
tends to find its mark.
Glancing around the corner
reveals the doomed replacements:
another floral cluster
that will only grace the pavement.
He's flicked his burning butt
at a poorly parked convertible.
He pays no attention
to the dirt under his nails.
There isn't much advice here
like fathers who teach nothing
save for stinking sardine Sundays
and how to lose a wife.
What a great man
for someone else.
What a perfect afternoon
for execution.
What's left but the madness
that these silent strangers share?
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