The greenish roses that loop about a silver
rain spout in the rear of a Topeka railroad station
that no longer services Kansas City or Wichita
have been termed “darlings” by people
quite a bit more muscular and brainier than me.
These roses bi-annually grow rapidly,
but I annually refuse to fall for the omnipresent
bromide about how the promise of vivid color
occurs lots of places in Mama Nature’s realm
and always overtakes the optics of her dullish
green, though I’m really not the jurist you’d want
to be in front of were the growth and color of roses
a life-and-death issue of your days here, or some
predictor of your chances to go wild-west, lasso,
and then hold onto a fortune. No, for that,
you’d want someone along the lines
of Adlai Stevenson, Mikhail Sholokhov,
or Billie Holiday, and you’d hope like hell
Katherine Mansfield and/or Edgar Degas
had earlier been coaxed to be on standby, or,
better yet, was actually waiting in the wings.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine places as Stanzaic Stylings, Poetry London, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers andThe California Quarterly.