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.