Dandelions (II)

He drew
these dandelions
during one
of the days
when the only

solace
was derived
from the labor
of getting
the white stems

and blurry seed heads
just right. “Nobody there,”
the new disease
announced,
with black-tie gloom,

“nobody there,”
after he’d succumbed.
Sometimes,
sleeping soundly
is almost

unbearable.
Please take
care of me,
he asked,
as they put

his crayons
with his wallet
in a box
by the stove.
In the distance,

beyond the tulips,
an insect chorus
droned:
we beat you up;
we beat you up.

More Poems by Henri Cole