Agoraphobia

For all I'm concerned,
We are crowded by ghosts.
We host them and boast
Of the prettiest roses
That we march down the streets,
A fragrant infantry,
Armed with pedals and thorns
That drive in the foreign-born.
They party before parting,
Making trash while getting trashed.
And then it all passes
Before I have mine to say
That traffic and roadblocks are
Not making my day.
...Turn before it closes!
Thanks, Tournament of Roses...