railroad yard in San Jose I wandered desolate in front of a tank factory and sat on a bench near the switchman's shack.
A flower lay on the hay on the asphalt highway —the dread hay flower I thought—It had a brittle black stem and corolla of yellowish dirty spikes like Jesus' inchlong crown, and a soiled dry center cotton tuft like a used shaving brush that's been lying under the garage for a year.
Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.
