Sweet Peas

My wife's wild sweet peas rise up in Dr. Seuss skyscrapers, colors

from chalk drawings, embarassing me because I'm nothing like that.

Joyous way of life, standing tall and happy all day long, fearless,

a civilization that conquered its demons generations ago. Simple.

Could blame cancer, or old habits from the working life, sobriety,

blood that seems to have been pasteurized by age...blood lite.

As if you end up being a thing the world made, and not yourself,

what you meant to be having run off down an alley one drunken night.

As if another person is struggling to push aside muscles and ribs

to escape from inside and finally take over, and love is freed.

As if I protected this person all my life, like an armed chauffeur,

the client helpless, stupid, without guile or guilt, just sitting there, safe.

And I get a hint about why ancient man thought sacrifice delivered something

special to the gods, the only way out a shiv pounded into the chest.