The Garden

These beds are moated castles
armed for war, their concrete sides
blades rotating, gouging broken shins

The paths between no place to walk
or breathe or sit but
bloodgutters.

North of here, hugging the sidewalk
a rosary of stones beneath the lilac
Periwinkle Island & Catherine’s eyes.

I’d set the Blarney Stone beside her there
dug into a ramp of green
recline in its shade.

Hands would clasp my balding pate
one fat calf on its opposite knee
appositely, meerschaum pipe in hand

—more than content
to live a life apart from that
unspeakable shrieking greed

That need to bring others
not to their hearts
but their knees.

© Dan Goorevitch, 2006, 2007