Night City Sunflower

Black bloom of Broadway, light's last night watchman— you do your job grudgingly, staring down the bail bondsman with your one good eye.

You're full of doubt. Where's this morning they talk about? For all you know this night could be the one that lasts. You have the petals

of a killer, the build of a boxer. And just what do you think you're looking at, poker face? Want to fight, Sunflower?

How many peonies have you strangled with that crooked stalk of yours? The other weeds steer clear of your jagged crack in the sidewalk,

the drunken carrion crows fly to the other end of the block to avoid the searing yellowness of your gaze,

and the poor clover wither in your shade. Every night owl knows you—the midnight walkers and bad sleepers, the few shivering

passersby walking quickly under hooded coats, the suddenly hungry heading for any of a hundred glowing all-night

diners, the lonely shadows in their windows, and the twitching figures pacing endlessly from one end

of the world to the other. I've seen you from time to time, leering from your deep hole in the universe. In some field

there are thousands like you, all lined up in rows and rows of yellow, each turning slowly in unison with the next, each collapsing

in a bow of reverence for the light that passes over. These thousands would wilt in the anemic neon gleam that sustains you. Tattoo.

Big Love Motel. Midnight Massage. Open All Nite. You cannot turn your face toward the sun, but you shiver

slightly at passing headlights or the occasional star. Who will dare to cut you down when you are frosted over with snow?

I turned once to see you swaying darkly beside me— you bowed your head slightly as I passed by. Later, half-asleep,

I could still hear your leaves rustling like the sleeves of a black wool coat—the coat of a preacher or a watchman or a pallbearer.