What’s wrong with three flowers?
Once a day, I could carry
A pitcher of water to the plants.
I could enjoy the beauty and aroma.
Why must there be three hundred thousand flowers,
With frantic hours on bulldozers
To turn up the earth
To run miles of plastic water pipe
To blast mountains to drill for oil
To manufacture plastic pipe and fuel bulldozers,
To fight wars with bombs to mutilate babies
To scurry from plant to plant
Amid roaring motors and electric hum
For three hundred thousand flowers
Screaming proud self-importance?
Why must I stand guard on the glories
Of industrial technicolor opulent
Computer-screen flowers by the gazillion,
Or dodge junkie-piss concrete
Tattooed on the lips of idiot thieves?
What’s wrong with three flowers
And a simple pitcher to water them?