Many-handed, like a home crowd welcomes a congressman
visiting his district with their petitions,
the rhododendron supplicates the sun
with shiny hard-coated dark green leaves,
each a pair of closed lips narrow at the corners,
swollen in the middle,
each with the same hard-to-read expression--
not quite a smirk--lips can’t be expressionless
even when asleep, but can be between expressions
as these are but to their intimates
even these waitings can be read.
The sun can be counted on most of the year,
unlike politicians if you want something
and aren’t paying“Ahhhhh”,
they think and almost say like the lips of sunbathers
on a beach in their paired and oiled hundreds,
all the same who wouldn’t have come today
if the sun hadn’t.
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