The Flowers

I think about the flowers 
when the television shows a mother, 
immigrant, separated at the breast 
from her blessings, weeps
like a hungry, hungry swine. 

I think about the flowers
when the limbs of hundreds lay scattered
in the open streets like toys after a child’s 
Sunday afternoon playtime, 
and the rest, limping and groaning, 
go to shelled hospitals
to perish like sinners.

I think about the flowers when
leaders sacrifice the best of them 
for the earth’s crude, black blood, 
brooding in slumber beneath the 
seabed - this fake thing called oil. 

What is there for a man to gain 
in this world, on this superficial rock, 
floating atop prayer and luck, 
when the red hot hibiscus, loud in 
the summer sun, dies,
like all the rest.