a garden poem, well, not really

another 1998 unsolicited, unpublished poem.

not much to say this evening - off of night shift for a few days, and it was not an easy one to be certain. dwelling in the "zombie zone" until i can get caught up a bit on rest. the mill is actually hiring 4 new people, now that we've run short handed for nearly a year. should be interesting. contract talks await in July and as far as a new buyer - well, that's one of the great secrets of the universe that hasn't been resolved just yet.





HER GARDEN
- Only the tips of my hair still remember
your stroking.
-yevtushenko

behind the garden gate
she showed me her zinnias,
let me pick her hibiscus, but the rosebuds,
she swore, would never bloom
in my vase.

her riddles were not perfect,
but they were beautiful
as her mouth enunciating uncertainty.

in the morning, when i shave
my legs, she whispered,
nothing will remain of your affection.

i waited for rain,
the way old men wait for buses,
schedules so old
the print was no longer legible.

her smile remained
as tempting as whiskey
when the night had forgotten
how to tell time.