Wild Poppies

sprout up along the precipice of roads
and empty parking lots strewn with garbage.
Their crimson, crepe petals turned upwards
as if reaching for salvation.
Something that will take them away
from this overgrown junkyard
of rusty tin cans, animal carcasses,
and pungent odors whose origin is unknown.
An elderly woman with spider veins
crawling up her stout legs
reminisces in a rocking chair on the porch,
admiring the view through cloudy eyes.
Thankful each day for the abundance
of vibrant red among the dirty grey
of the discarded and forgotten.




* Published in Red River Review, Nov 2010