Flower-Seller, Lincoln Boulevard
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Hurried stream of traffic. He stands in the cement island of safety
arms loaded with cellophane bundles: carnations rags on fire, tight
fists of roses
across the street you can buy antiques and boats, whatever floats yours
Buy, buy, he’s saying, all desperate gesture,
we are locked in our cars, in a hurry
to get where we are going, home, work
we are in a hurry to take what is ours to be taken
to make something of ourselves, to set our selves apart
and we don’t have time for a flower-seller, his small bounty
however beautiful, and isn’t it beautiful?
the color, the tender offering—call to love what is perishable
what isn’t ours to keep
He’ll be at it tomorrow, the next day, and someone will stop
roll down their window while the light is red
as if the moment was all that mattered
and pass the flower-seller five dollars.
From Buddha Box by Gretchen Mattox