Dandelion

My first trip, I scoured every floor

of the MoMA, winding around other patrons

before they could read “Alabama” on my tee.

I lingered over Birthday’s lovers

levitating into kiss, then moved as if driven

until I found, unreal and gleaming,

an Airstream. I made myself at home.

I took a seat. I cranked the slatted glass

open and peered out at the nearby Eames

and Starck. You’d think I had never seen

metal rivets before. I had never seen anything

from where I come from hailed as art. I want that

trailer-inside-the-MoMA feeling again now, I want

dandelion seed valued as much as tulip bulbs.

So I’m buying this packet of what most want

to poison. And the dream of putting down

roots. It has nothing to do with dandelions

that sprout and blossom into suns and moons

as bright and mythic as any Chagall.

Or how their greens fill bowl and belly.

Or how my bees will ferment their nectar

into honey. That’s all free and easy.

Those seeds I could harvest from any lawn.

          It’s worth I’m after.

          And always paying for.