Into the Ground

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INTO THE GROUND


Were I to be accused of bankrupting

what is deemed the serviceable part of me 

by spending an inordinate amount 


of time doing nothing lucrative 

with words and birds 

on the front porch, investing 


in far too many seeds 

than the weeding department 

could ever hope to handle


for a garden I've never 

actually seen but swear 

must be there right beneath the sod,  


and doing it all with the same 

staff—however under-qualified 

we continue proving to be—


with whom I started this venture,

I’m banking on the judge 

laughing as he brings the gavel down 


with a pronouncement of oh 

so very guilty, the ushers 

leading me out the back door 


as I shoulder the unending

sentence of joy joy joy 

without parole

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