Tar Blossoms

The white apple blossoms fall delicately and

s

i

n

k

Into the

Sticky,

Oozing

Tar,

Melting with the afternoon sun,

Turning them into tar blossoms.

Falling,

Floating,

And blowing

With the light spring breeze,

Mixed with the scent of men working in the sun,

And the vinegar of apples that no one wanted...

Or forgot.

White petals stick to the sweat and salt of bronzed backs,

Like women’s perfume,

Looking like albino, tear-shaped freckles,

Or muscle tissue on top of skin.

The apple trees guard brows with their flowery shade,

Their roots digging deep and mixing

With the freshly laid concrete.

That way, Mr. Jones can claim

Nature and edifice alike as “Private Property.”

Another petal falls and is encased in the grey, hardening substance,

Right next to the bicycle marks

Of the ten year old boy down the street,

And the initials of E.B. hearts C.S.

And I just watch that petal imprint itself,

To be a grey, everlasting reminder of spring,

Like the violet pressed in

King James’ version of The Bible at home,

Entrapped somewhere in between

The birth of Christ and his resurrection.

Just like how Mr. Jones claims to only go to church

On Christmas Eve or Easter Morn.

And I wonder if Mr. Jones does the same thing

With reading that bible of his.

He must have skipped over those crucial parts

Like “Love thy neighbor as thyself,”

Because instead he implanted “No Parking,” and

“Keep Out,” signs to keep us neighbors out.

He says it's to ensure the “Thou shalt not steals” and the

“Thou shalt not covets” from happening.

I stand in the street thinking about Daniel in the lion’s den,

Pressing blossoms into the warm tar with my bare toes,

And turning them into tar blossoms.

Just like that forgotten violet in between St. Luke and St. John,

On the top shelf that no one dusts,

Until the minister is expected for a visit.

And I wonder,

Does E.B. really heart C.S.?