Drought year scorches, but someone waters us.
Our four orange petals flash on median strips.
We’re wrapped in tailpipe emissions,
parched with dust on rainless days. Still, we shelter bugs.
Ladybugs, ants, and spiders hide
wrapped in our nighttime hug,
sheltered from blind trucks, dry wind,
3 AM busses with no one on board.
Oh, yes, hear the endless police cars,
gunshots zip past us. Pop. Pying.
Battles over meth and small cash.
Humans sleep in parking lots:
graybeards with gravel voices and stinking breaths
forage midnight dumpsters for chicken legs and pies.
They howl as they sink in shadows.
These songs can make you tremble and weep.
Caffeinated EMT vans crash by
filled with your broken. Still, we dance before dawn.
Nothing scares us.
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