There’s that dark-suited convocation
gathered above our heads again, conveniently
screened by leaves: who hasn’t heard
rumors of their self-important agenda,
the steady nattering among themselves
as they deal, petal by pink petal, errant
and seemingly fatal destinies? Every
so often, humid missiles plummet
and find easy targets. Who knows
how many of them sit in session, sniping
from every rung on the tree of heaven?
Listen then: stay clear. Walk the long
way home. Or make a dash for it, head
bent low, gunning for the kill.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.