Green Grow the Rushes, Oh.
Here. Take a corner, any corner, any building,
find a few red spider lilies idly guilding,
a small vase full of something of that ilk,
no shame, no guilt. And ceaseless prattle,
crash-zoom a cot of baby shaking rattles;
all dried peas, spilt beans, hollow shells.
Like that flung box that missed the bin,
you were too lazy to reach down, put it in,
quickly consumed whatever was within:
MacDonald’s maybe, flaky scalp, blotchy skin
over-sweetened by pastel coffee, delivered,
ordered by phone because you’re grown
or so you think. Blink. Dark here, too dark
within a toxic box, gather others for comfort,
blanket yourself with bouquet and shiver.
The tunnel is long, so better to remain here
than risk the living daylights and fresher air.
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