Ghosts
The first time I saw him he was standing
in front of the Iranian embassy
with his mother, or with whom I assumed
was his mother. She wore a black bonnet
like a black flower. He wore a black
frock coat and a beige collar high
under his chins. His linen
was unimpeachable. His hat
high and mighty. Mother and son seemed
to be communicating mentally, like flowers.
The next time I saw him was at the
horticultural park. His cravat was crisp
and severe as a lily. I followed him
out onto the street. He wore
a panegyric trifle in gold across his chest,
and a truffle with ruffles snapped
across his midsection. His shapely mother,
or who I assumed was same, stood beside him,
with a black lace parasol and a faded carnation.
A parade passed by, and I lost sight of them,
a parade led by a marching band
with plumed hats and flashing brass angles—
and in its midst, a float in the shape of a giant
gentleman made of flowers, his blue frock cut
from foxgloves by expert tailors,
and he loomed unsteadily above
the sparks and metal of the street.
