a riot of marigolds

the main street garden beds
of any small, tidy town
become the ultimate metonym for perfection
and their riot of marigolds and daisies
do seem to lift spirits

and so the place is crowded at lunch time:

across from me an old sparky
eats a salad roll
wrapped in that classic, white paper bag,
carrot shavings
and beetroot stains on his knuckles

accessorising ‘thin’ with a possible tank top
and a pair of hip bones,
a girl and her date skip lunch
skip conversation and get right to the point

walking her poodle across
a new green-uniform lawn,
with the poor thing held hostage
in a rock-climbing harness,
a short woman attempts dignity

and stuffed into the main street is a swathe
of boats, caravans and four-wheel-drives,
lines of them like transient vines of shining steel
that hem the garden and leave behind
the oxygen of their dollars.

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