Party
Dear dogwood, what the hell?
Why all the blooming, raucous and bright,
like there isn’t an apocalypse at your feet?
The toxic sprays. The runoff. The dryer lint
caught in the drainage grate. See, the bike rack
gets it, all stolid in gunmetal and rust.
The lamppost, grim, unbending. But
look at the daffodils—Jesus! The dandelion
poking its grinning sunhead through the mulch
that someone spread so carefully just
last week. All you organic fools, flowering
despite it all. The Ford Explorer,
ruining the earth every day, is festooned
with your wet pink blossoms like
a poacher wearing a necklace of teeth,
and still you keep dropping more
and more every time the wind gusts.
Squirrels spiral up and down your trunk.
Everywhere: chittering robins, nattering jays.
Why all these festivities? How? Oh killjoy,
I imagine you saying, your soft petals
on my neck like a cocktail-cool hand,
even disaster is a party if you dress for it.
