Thistle and primrose blur
along the street, those untended patches
in the breeze of passing cars.
Long-suffering purple
flowers shake their foolhardy heads,
even this close
to bike paths and tennis courts.
Yellow blossoms promise renewal
as they shiver through
chain link fence. Sunlight
leaves tracks up and down the arms
of oak trees here, where
every other road ends
in shadow shift and curb despair.
It gets so a body can’t leave
the house without stumbling
over addiction. Knotweed leans
against block walls, closes its weary eyes.
Some of us never mean to leave
this world. We mean to rush away
with daylight, ready to rise
anew after the mortal hours
of night. How telling, the flowers,
goldenrod, yarrow.
David B. Prather is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing). His work has appeared in many journals, including Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, and Poet Lore. He studied acting at The National Shakespeare Conservatory, and he studied writing at Warren Wilson College. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.
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