In front of us all
are so damn many
fascinating moments that make
this place worth staying in
and crowing about,

yet many people
will take their lives tonight
and deny it all as if they had become blind
and their tongues had fallen
out of their heads.

Outside my front window
the sole poppy is raising
nascent heads from its center
toward an eventual explosion.
I will wait for them,

at least through their eventual reclosing
into pods whose jade ribs will cradle
a future for their source;
they say they promise a chance
to see them again for years if I stay,

and while poppies are notorious for deception,
the possibility that there is some song for them
only I was meant to sing makes me clear my throat
and settle in for the duration, with no clue
as to how I will do it, but knowing I shall.