Often

Often I feel the chance like the floret from
a dandelion clock, blown, through the vortice
of doubt and tribulation, to seed the flower
of opportunity elsewhere in some future place
a garden in a run-down quarter where by the hour
one can rent life and sex, or where a dog with three
legs hops a joint, and a newborn is aborted into service
of the state, the thin green blade of the choice
is mown down by acid rain and pollution,
and that little floral shuttlecock goes on its way
over an imagined neighbourhood of down town
life, to the middle-class meadow of high-rise money