Poppies

Last winter on the corner
of Fifth Avenue, paint buckets filled
with poppies. I remember not for their jazz
tearing a backdrop of snow,
but for the way two men unloaded
buds like munitions.

One of them wore fingerless gloves,
cupped cellophane throats.
Below him a brother or son
shuttled fox fur
between the truck
and curb. I knew from the cold kiss

of his touch the petals
gave no scent — he did not lean
into the red corona, it was
pure commerce. The pods hung,
flammable batteries.

Karen Rigby
Festival Bone
Adastra Press

Copyright © 2004 by Karen Rigby.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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