The Dirty Marigold

The soil is covering a rotten art.

The unkind yellow stinks with dust, mold and
Pointless thoughts.

You remind me of time that has been allowed out of a jar
And disperses and floats senselessly into the air. Spores.

Your roots are roots and it is
Not miraculous,

A brain is used or unused, and our memories retain
Some of what was once sickening and wounding.

Where are the marigolds
That flourish?

Where are the glad faces that are immortal?

Where are the police? Where is the ambulance?