flowers mister

moving the dead air like an uninterrupted chorus of heavy wake
vehicles roll their black soles over bleached asphalt grit
all day and all night and find pauses for breath
dictated only by amber to red
---
mister sits upon one overturned bucket
an interruption in the pattern of others
right-sided and filled with cut flowers bright
and fresh beneath their plastic wrap
and unknowing of the exhaust unseen from
ancient petroleum plants and bits of synthetic rubber
---
he sits between the scissor blades of traffic
waiting patiently for those breaths
to deal in pedals and pollen
pure and moist
---
he inhales tobacco smoke
as if to match the unseen carbon grime
up in his clothing fibers with
his darkened lungs
---
his math is tight
hard hands wring
posture wilts slightly
with each passing green and no empty buckets
---
the flower death began in the land of windmills and levees
but still for another day live here amidst the choked air
and the impermeable ground and the vehicles who
feign the good life with chromed plastic
---
mister is a ruse of make-believe
a spirit sent to shed anonymous light upon that
which is the fading paradox