Spartacus

Kenneth Pobo

I scroll through pictures of beauty,
roll from December back through March,
one gorgeous flower after another
sliding by quickly,
no stopping, like drinking hot
chocolate too fast—even still,

I stop scrolling when I find a picture
of a Spartacus dahlia.
The red makes me want to live in it,
turn my whole life red,
this dark shade.
Peace would come, I know it,
though Spartacus was a gladiator,

hardly peaceful. The fierce red
battles with the sun
who sometimes loses,
sinking behind the shed,
a yellow badminton birdie.

The sun never stays vanquished.
As July ages into August, the blossom
starts to weaken. The stem
props up the red remnant,
the bloom fighting until the end.