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| 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