Not Even a Rose

When I see newly arrived immigrants selling fresh roses
On the side of the sunny, congested freeway,
I feel genuine, ineffable Rage;
And I begin to lose faith in the concepts of
Justice and Equality—
But then I refrain:

This is the same world in which
Diego Rivera was unfaithful to Frida Kahlo,
And vice versa;
Nothing is perfect:
Not even a rose.

When I walk the concrete streets on cloudy Christmas Eve,
And see homeless people trembling in the rain,
I feel genuine, ineffable Rage;
And I begin to lose faith in the concepts of
Compassion and Christianity—
But then I refrain:

This is the same world in which
Jack Kerouac drank himself into an early,
Bitter grave;
Nothing is perfect:
Not even the fame.

When I mechanically toss and turn in the middle of the night,
And vainly wish I would just hurry up and fall into sleep,
I feel genuine, ineffable Rage;
And I begin to lose faith in the concepts of
Art and Philosophy—
But then I refrain:

This is the same world in which
Sylvia Plath retired her pen
(In a confessional oven);
Nothing is perfect:
Not even a poem.