fleabane, a poem
fleabane, a poem
The factory where once I lurked
now lays fallow, completely shirked;
all across the empty lots
sprout floating little dots;
white filaments of hair
that even a flea can’t bear;
discs of yellow so bright
they leave the mind alight.
It may well be
that a flea’s bane is a bee’s gain
but as for me, all it brings is pain.
by matt at shadow of iris
For Reference:
Common Fleabane
That opening line is a zinger. Not only does it rhyme, surprisingly, with the unspoken “worked,” but the complex or mixture is cool — how many poorly paid factory workers might lurk more than work, if they can get away with it, while Management rakes in all the big dough. Or the sense that you are nostalgic for bygone days of a churning industrial concern, now sagging in rust and ennui.
Or…the strange notion that you might have spent idle time simply lurking in a factory parking lot, even if you didn’t work there.
Tim, thank you for these really fine comments! I think you got the poem just right.