When young men desire flowers

I met my friend the other day
Near the old library
Where the janitor truck stood
Stocked with clippers, mowers
Weapons of slaughter
To eliminate the green army
Invading our storehouse.

The sky was polished silver
Not much color could be found
Yet there my friend stood
With a leaf in his hand.

Not the ordinary thing That falls from trees
But a massive feather

From Montezuma's crown
Atop a staff of emerald

"I felt like having it" he said
When I asked why he possessed it
I gazed at it and scoffed
When my eyes traveled

Beyond his shoulder

"You are poor of judgment!" I scolded
"Why take a common feather

So emerald and plain
When there stands the comb
Made of orange gold?"

From its mass of emerald
The Paradise bird gazed at me
With a comb the color of a dull pen
And juice too sweet for my soft throat

My friend looked at it and smiled
Wickedness manifesting
And handing me the feather
He attacked the bird

There his battle began
Pulling, twisting, scratching
Trying to sever the lovely head
From the body of emerald

I laughed at his struggle
So foolish a conqueror
Blind to the abandon weapons
And to the scissor in my purse

I laughed and the drops of sweat

Laughed at the silent screams

Laughed and the green blood

Laughed at the wicked smile

At last the conqueror had his prize
The head of the Paradise bird
Holding it up in triumph

With the emerald feather
He seemed like a king
A foolish king

You scorn me in knowing
I willed the bird's death
That I laughed seeing

The severed head
In my friend's barbaric grasp

I laugh and still laugh

Loud and sweet
For I'd rather see

The Paradise Bird
A scepter for a foolish king

Than a forsaken adornment
For a rusty tin can.