My first trip, I scoured every floor
of the MoMA, winding around other patrons
before they could read “Alabama” on my tee.
I lingered over Birthday’s lovers
levitating into kiss, then moved as if driven
until I found, unreal and gleaming,
an Airstream. I made myself at home.
I took a seat. I cranked the slatted glass
open and peered out at the nearby Eames
and Starck. You’d think I had never seen
metal rivets before. I had never seen anything
from where I come from hailed as art. I want that
trailer-inside-the-MoMA feeling again now, I want
dandelion seed valued as much as tulip bulbs.
So I’m buying this packet of what most want
to poison. And the dream of putting down
roots. It has nothing to do with dandelions
that sprout and blossom into suns and moons
as bright and mythic as any Chagall.
Or how their greens fill bowl and belly.
Or how my bees will ferment their nectar
into honey. That’s all free and easy.
Those seeds I could harvest from any lawn.
It’s worth I’m after.
And always paying for.