The Mexican has trashed the

bougainvillea leaving a couple dozen

blossoms and a lone stem bent skyward.

Takemitsu is dead though his baton

waves on despite being cut down like

a weed this chainsaw morning while

this afternoon Susan wept.

I enjoyed the bougainvillea too but she

she lived for it yet I never knew she

hated Mexicans on and on about his

merciless ways she would have left them

intact a steady stream of bright crimson

bliss carelessly caressing that ugly wire

fence now anyone can see in and she

takes no comfort knowing it

will grow too thick again.

Takemitsu is dead though I hear

him swelling in the seas of a distant

orchestra pulled out by the roots on another

chainsaw morning in Ventura windows wide

open his arms chaotically surging over our

storming airwaves the bougainvillea hanging

on for dear life.