Where the Bougainvillae No longer bloom

there was a garden in the city
with a flushing meadow
of golden green and sparkling bits
of purple orchids and blue carnations
sunk in a low spot
as nightingales darted in cages
cribbed and coffined within
an area of darkness
away from that sole garden
with a solitary light
that came out
when the bougainvaillae failed to bloom
when the waterfalls faile to rush down
into a valley of mirth and revelry
astride a garden of green
plastic, organic, real, throbbing
with green goblins dancing
more happily than Mortal Man
who despite being alive
look morose, glum, dreary-eyed,
pushing carts of luggage
alongside a bold boulevarde
bills to pay, education to save for,
boisterous cunning children
unappreciative of filial piety
and the traditions of old,
old buildings torn down to make way
for a bright and sparkling
casino on the hill
where bougainvillae even if they bloom
would rather die
for the truth of their purple bloom
cannot flower on a poker table
made for a galley of gamblers
with no humanity other
than their greed for gold ...