Tall purple tulips by towering granite walls,
Unimagined lives cloistered within those narrow halls.
You reach out to pluck one, caress its perfect shape,
They are the only patch of colour in this urban landscape.
The grey of the high-rise shuts out the sky,
You leave the tulips growing, walk to a supermarket nearby,
Buy ten tiny tulips wrapped in cellophane,
Flown all the way from Holland on a cargo airplane.
Later, you arrange them in a decanter meant for wine,
Place them on the windowsill bathed in yellow sunshine.
Barefoot Sociologist 
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