Beneath the roses

Bad focus, soft is the glass eye. The Young Men move fast like the wind- rhythmic waves flowing through a slipstream. Some faster, bigger, stronger. Surrounding, The Masses swell; then give. The University President melts in the sun, melting anyway, a figure of wax- a mirror for time. Clemens, the old hurler, too many pills, high blood pressure, stands on the sideline and gestures with a reddened face, offspring similar: bored, drained from their father's transgressions. On the grass the other McCoy spins and ducks, moves and shakes from expectation and legacy while the Old Coach holds a child in his hands. Bevo soothed by electric currents. Mountains stand behind an old Bowl of Roses.
Shitty haiku written, jokingly.

the vastness was dynamic, the absence total;
28 days later but I guess they still had to pick up the trash.