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in March and all year long

the flowers
are throwing rocks
again,
as the robin watches
drinking a beer;
and the mountains
shine purple.

not much is working in the room next to mine.

everyone is looking for a way out.
no matter what 
they have, or don't have

it never works.

through the window
the petals fly -
and scatter -
into the black street
where a cat licks them up.

my father can only punch the walls now.

the robin is watching with great interest
as one flower opens in the rain,
and the other closes its' pedals,
wondering
what went wrong.

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