One by William Doreski
Beside the Beebe Trail gentian
flaunts my favorite blue. The slope
and wooded boundaries conceal
the lurking view of South Pack,
a bulk too massive to bulldoze
for the benefit of developers
who’ve sworn to re-engineer the town
to suit the right sort of people.
Gentians disregard such people,
who cruise around showing off
antique convertibles reserved
for three-day holiday weekends.
Like the bluff man who crowded me
in the café this morning. He shoved
through the crowd with his bulk
displayed in a tight red shirt
exposing biceps floppy as breasts.
Flowers don’t acknowledge men
like that, huffing aggressive men
whose massive necks have toughened
like those leathery fungi
that adhere to trees. But then
they don’t notice me, either.
The trail winds into the forest,
glooming over and shutting out
the sun-loving gentian.
I carom down the crooked trail
and emerge at the parking lot.
Here a grinning family packs
a picnic basket and ignores
my hearty routine greeting,
my sweaty old skin. They don’t know
that gentian has blessed the landscape
with a shade of blue so powerful
not even factories in China
can reproduce it for the rich—
not even to bless their children
who need color to convince them
that something in nature cares.
William Doreski’s work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently The Suburbs of Atlantis (AA Press, 2013).