crushed underfoot

they said summertime

was made of stardust.

but the roses have died --

shriveled back into the

holes in the ground,

faces puckered up and

roots torn underfoot.

is this what it's like here?

flower beds made of lies?

prove to me that any of this

is worth it; i'm begging,

praying to the weeping willows.

while they cry pink lilies

into our hair, tender,

they also let us walk

across the dead rose thorns,

unmoved when they sink

into the soft flesh of our feet.

we are nothing but ants--

we are made to die swiftly

and softly under the heels

of their promise-lined boots.

they say summertime

is made of stardust,

but all the while they hide us

in the shade of the weeds,

just out of reach of the stars.