The Rise of the Bougainvillea
They stormed the office
like a peasant revolt;
hundreds of bougainvillea,
purple petal pandemonium,
usurping underfoot,
crushing into the carpet.
They rode the cold front,
the winds of change.
They were no match
for the vacuum,
the roto-reaper,
its sanctimonious suction.
Beauty is a frail defense
against the bourgeoisie.
Pile stand triumphant.
Tiles lay clean, blameless.
On the surface, work time
was the only casualty.
The front door is rattled,
fearing another attack.
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