Flowers

By Bob Dougherty

I leaned forward against the corner of the old brick building
forearm against forehead and wondered how I got here.
Down the alley between and beyond two old trucks I saw another
flower peering through an opening in a fence.  It compelled me
to come forward like the other flowers I had seen.  The sun
beat down and I could feel the heat from the old trucks
 
as I approached.  Squeezing between them the smell of crazed
old tires and oil painted the air.  I ducked under a side mirror
but saw no one in it.  Where are the people in this forgotten place;
what woes caused them to leave?  Finally, I reached the flower
and stretching out my hand to touch it, a hard gust of dust blew
through the opening.  Wiping sweaty grime from my eyes
 
I saw him standing in a doorway framed like a portrait;
old with deep eyes, he seemed to call me with thoughts alone.
Extending his hand, I held it and I swear when we touched
I heard a rattling and it was not him.  He looked inside me
and invited me over the threshold, then said,
 
“I planted the flowers to grow everywhere
and lead the people back to me”.