3137. THE GARDENER'S GOOD TRUCK

THE GARDENER'S
GOOD TRUCK
It was morning, and the wet grass was flooding
my shoes; the lone sentinel of a hawk looked
down from atop an elm, beseeching the world
below to deliver Death to it. Never bidden,
Death arrives; just another roadkill bird to
remember its cry. All was peaceful and still,
and then the gardener's good truck rolled by.
-
We are so bemused by things, and we just
keep going : the Ferris Wheel round in the
sky, still lit up, turning, from the night before.
The abandoned fairgrounds, now quiet and still,
merely dances eerily, its fabrics and tents
blowing in the wind, with not a word from all
those sleeping carnies in their drowsing tents
and trailers. Why, or why not? No difference.
-
And then the gardener's good truck comes rolling by -
trailing a flag and a container of spray poison, and
something else alike to fertilize the ground and
kill the weeds. Ah, so, then we should all reach
such lucky a station : the gardener's good truck,
the riven tents, the slaughtered bird, and the hawk.