WILD AND FLOWERING

Not you, devil’s paintbrush or rose-purple bull thistle

or you dwarf dandelion with your toothed leaves

and pocketful of ants.

Nor you plume-like goldenrod

or ragwort or pearly everlasting

or violet-blue harebell

or bittersweet,

though I love the name

or smartweed,

the bright pink oxymoron of the meadows.

It’s you, woman

plucking lobelia to wear in your hair.

I swear to you,

the lobelia would say the same.

THE WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER AT THE GOVERNMENT OFFICE

I couldn’t imagine

her has a young woman.

But she was so stern-faced,

no wrinkle would dare age her either.

Nothing in the way of beauty of course.

But no charm or style

to offset her severity.

Her expression said everything.

“I can be of no help

but try me anyhow.”

She was civil

without being polite.

And knowledgeable about her job

but totally ignorant

when it came to how her function

could apply to me.

She had no interest

in other human beings,

a race in which I included myself.

She was the kind

who swap in living for existence,

humanity for job and pension.

In a voice without inflection,

she directed me to a room down the hall.

She never explained

what I would find when I got there.