Praise be! The man at the end of the bar wore a suit and tie. Red, of course.
There were no flowers but it didn’t matter. I thought of flowers and my mother
who died last December but it didn’t matter. I thought of a Regime across the
ocean which believed it was OK to defend its sovereignty by slitting the throats
of twelve year old boys. Suspected of being Rebels. I’m talking about Syria.
But it doesn’t matter. Maybe my facts are wrong. Maybe it never happened.
Maybe nothing can ever happen again, and I can drive to Reading Massachusetts
and my mother will be there planting Marigolds and Paradise Flowers, Morning
Glories that will climb the trellises to the peak of the garage, bloom purple-white
above the brown of an August drought. Does this matter? Does it matter that
the man at the end of the bar speaks earnestly? That his glasses are pushed up on
his head that his tie is still red but he has worked hard today and earned a certain
freedom from the office. Praise be! He is in need of drink and conversation.
Drink and an attractive woman to smile at his strained lawyer face that just today
defended a young black refugee in the city of Concord New Hampshire here only
to steal our jobs and welch off our welfare system the accusers said red lips
spit moistened with Paradise Flower dreams red lips split moistened and I am
unfair to his red tie. There were many who called for his death. The accused
that is. Many who climbed gothic spires to scream for his crucifixion and He is
in need of incense and prayers a pound of ointment against all things that do not
really matter. There were many who raved and some who mourned and still some
who declare innocence despite honey-sweet righteous smiles on the evening
news. Speaking earnestly. Reading the New York Times. My mother grew
sunflowers each year which turned unfailingly to face the light. And this does
matter. The man at the end of the bar with a suit and tie. Red of course. The
Regime will fail. The hanged will smile sweetly. Praise be! No apologies.