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Oil Spill at the Conservatory
Sun-baked oil slick, foisted on two legs;
tell me this is commonplace for you.
Unfit to wander, yet wandering through
blooming meadows bereft of their shade --
aiding the process of putrefaction
by virtue of your crude, creeping splay.
And when you're stalled and coagulated;
making puddles with deceptive depths,
you'll be stepped on by the amiable
and oblivious tulips in turn.
You could cling by your teeth to their laces;
force them to stumble - plant in your bed,
but there's little for which to be taken
from a seed that shuns daylight, instead
of growing where it knew it would prosper.
