i started a garden
with a world war two bucket
filled with rusty water
that birds liked to use
for a summer-time crap

first grew the tomatoes:
my childhood vegetable.
it bleeds like i bleed:
for pity not for pain.
it's always fine the next day

later, much later
the roses rose awkwardly
like crippled old salesmen
at the north east fish market
to greet an approaching soccer mom

nothing carries more power
of possibility than a set of roses
in a man's own garden.
each one will make a story
involving a woman, a lie, and a heart

but these roses were not tomatoes
they faded in and faded out
like a virgin thirty year old programmer
at a picnic with wives in bikinis
with a hot dog plate near the grill

the labor of gardening
tires me, so i forget to pretend
i care for what grows next