The politics of flowers

Another late night/ last-minute submission. Couldn’t come up with quite the right closing lines, so I chose ones that made me laugh.

Spring has born a litter of dandelions
half trampled underfoot, yellow carnage
sullying concrete paths.
No daisies dally with the weeds.
They are kept – over there
in a manicured panorama,
taking up their portion of a small lot.
They are not so loud, not as wild and unkempt
as their cousins.
The daisies nod to the wind, polite as usual.
Gallant, even, when the dog comes
to take his morning piss.

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