Birmingham, 1963

 

Russian sage

Russians have taken over our gardening shed.

I see them, surfer-ish blondes and fierce Tatars

ambling among the trowels and bushel baskets,

planting their tri-color flag in the petunias. 

My brother has a train layout in the basement

set up on an old ping-pong table. I invite

one of the Russians to come down and see it.

He turns pale, looks funny, leaves in silence.

I go out to the garden shed with a notebook

like Lois Lane. I flip it open for an interview.

Why are you using our garden shed? 

I stand there with my pad like a waitress.

At night the Russians sit around and smoke,

private thoughts burning under a suburban moon. 

Don't they miss the Volga, the Dnieper?

Then in late June they are gone, leaving

only half a muffin behind like a broken heart

laid tenderly to rest amid the tall, fragrant sage. 

_______

for the Word Garden Word List--Pages For You. 

Music: In The Garden