At a Quaker Meeting
Shaking out raincoats and umbrellas,
we file into the perfumed hall.
Plush peonies are everywhere,
they strain toward us in super-sized bunches,
hang from shelves and sills,
loll over low shelves.
The Quakers sit and fall silent,
comfortable hearts bumping into the unknown,
as they meditate.
My own distracted thoughts
leave damp footprints on walls and ceiling,
as I listen to a radio blasting in my head.
Too wired, I imagine the peonies;
their spongy blooms soaking up
my leaky mind.
I fancy I hear growls of censure
as the flowers shake their chunky heads
like wet dogs.
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