Last Drop of Courage

I see young clones
of my kindred
fresh and new
and I sense
the spirits
of My Kind
gone before me
and the spirits
of our altrusim and
our belief in
the inherent
Goodness of Man
and The People
somewhere in time
but not here
not now.

But nothing is
so simple
the whiteness dazzles me
white cubicles
white insurance policies
poking from the pockets
of the clones
smart enough
to know the game
and play it well.
Perhaps they'll
change the rules
or perhaps
the rules will
change them.

I run to the shadows
to hide to lurk to look
hopefully, for
Life after Dream
because I am still here
mysteriously awake
but broken, I am broken
a gray haired mouse
with singed whiskers.
My cape is just a cape
and the supercheese
from the gleaming romance moon
is tinged with GMOs.

Wht now?  I ask
the sold-out moon
but it jeers at me
and offers
a bowl of pesticides.
There is no supercheese
here it says.

Am I the last dandelion
in the well-manicured
yard?  Off by the
edge, hidden by the
roots of a picnic tree
unseen and alone
my braver louder kindred
long ago uprooted
and discarded.

It is past the first frost
they will say
with disgust
my once glossy
orange mane is gone
to seeds
now scattered
but still I live
leaves and broken headless
stem bent and withered
in the shadow.

Shall I move
to the middle
of the perfect grassy lawn
and shout
"I am Weed!
Hear me!  See me!
We were once
legion,
beautiful young
herds of weeds
slaughtered
mowed down
to make way
for something else."

And what place is there
in a not-so-brave new world
for a shriveled
and withered weed?
It is harder to
survive alone, unseen
unheard, uncertain
than die a
vibrant wildflower
in the midst
of a righteous dream.

Do I have
the courage?
I must,
for I am here.
There must be
yet a drop
of courage
in Alice's
magic bottle.
I will lick
the last of it.

Courage for what?
To shout!
To sing the old songs
once again?
To be an old weed?
Courage for what?
I do not know.