THE BEST ROSE
Better than all the roses
that came in all the poems
before this one is this rose,
a rose without allusion,
stuck in a beer bottle
on the back porch
of Mando’s crib in the barrio.
There’s no need for history here.
Know that there are lights
coming on in the rich people’s houses
up the hill, and that there’s nothing
between the rose and the moon.
Everyone’s driving home
across the humming bridges
but they won’t be anywhere
for awhile. The center
of things moves around, but
right now, just before dinner,
the center is a rose
on Mando’s back porch,
sniffed by his deep brown daughter
who makes that cooing sound
roses try to make us do.