You are a flower

for the lumpen proletariat
swaying in the bus

you cannot be plucked
Buzys in earth boots

eyes shot from the day’s lathe
sparks fly into lollies

that land at your feet
scattering into the pockets

of media magnates.
Stepping over pools of drool

oceans of metal shavings
as you exit

absentmindedly you are made pregnant.