Rugosas, or Something of That Sort
If poetry must involve roses,
I suppose I can use the rugosas
Which the city had placed by the water.
They were put to good use by an eccentric,
A remarkable man who once lived here,
And who used to stand eating the rose hips.
He wore a brown robe, like a friar,
Which I think he'd made from an old blanket,
And, in cold weather, jerkin and puttees,
A retread of his grandmother's mink coat.
He played a reed flute at the Co-op,
A many-piped syrinx, tuned scalewise,
Like the works of an organ in little;
This was fashioned by him, too, with handwork,
And strictly from local materials.
His chef d'oeuvre occurred when he lasted
All winter in a tent made of plastic
Enclosing a Caucasian igloo
In the center of which was a fire-pit;
This was built on a lake roofed with slab ice.
(The newspaper covered the story.)
But when I came upon him, in summer,
He was grazing among the rugosas
Which were flourishing, bounded by asphalt,
In the parking lot fronting the harbor.
I had come downhill hoping for coolness,
And found him waist-deep in the hedges,
Plucking the plentiful rose-fruit.
(He was handsome -- I don't think I have mentioned
This part, but it went with the mythos;
He had waving dark hair, actor's features,
And a fine build, of middling stature;
He was cherished, of course, by a lady,
Who informed me, one night in the cafe,
As we stood in a tight press of bodies,
That she needed no pillow at bedtime,
As his upper arm served for that purpose.)
He exhorted me to try the rose hips,
Telling me they were stuffed full of vitamins,
Which I knew. I knew rose hips were edible,
Having drunk many cups of Red Zinger.
I mentioned exhaust as a factor
In my refusal to join him,
And probable poisonous sprayings.
But the fruit was free. Couldn't I see this?
I could, but had money in pocket,
And a kind of suburban reluctance
To wade into his prickly Eden,
Embarrassed by Paradise landscaped,
And the God of what people might think.
(Written 05-27-06)