Outside my window, the staccato of rusted shocks,
Every day, the same cars hit the same potholes,
But that morning, it was three children with spades
Silently stealing our garden plants in the haze—
Spindly azaleas that my father promised, someday
Would be a big, beautiful bush before my window.
My father, like all men, feared that his son would
Look out the window and see the town sinking,
Petals falling from a bush uprooted before its time.
He feared we would discover it had no chance:
When planted, he forgot to tease their roots,
But he didn't care. Flowers wilt, and he buys more.
The workers tore up the azaleas and flowers
They didn't want to do it, they were paid to:
Last lady who owned that house couldn't afford rent
So, they cut off her water. Anyone can do it.
My father taught me how: a black plastic lid hidden
Among vines, and inside, a pipe, a valve.
We are all of us one act of God away
From withering in an artificial drought,
And what is an act of God if not a rich person
Calling the police on a poor person?
They led her away in cuffs. She and her hounds.
One of the police bitten on the arm; it was not the dog.
Without her, all that remained were rows and rows
Of dandelions in bloom, sleeping suns
Dreaming of the day they would become clouds
Only for my father to crush them under foot.
The three thieving children gathered their corpses
Bouquets of passion flowers and honeysuckle.
To them, the azaleas and the dandelions,
They were the same: flowers worthy of touch.
The last I saw of them, the children, the dandelions,
And yes, even the flowers, all never to bloom,
Never to be replaced. Centipede grass without
Clover flowers to color it in the brown winter.
Nothing like a fresh cut lawn on a Sunday morning.
Just wish the city would fix up that damn pothole.
CS Crow is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
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