Letter to the Gardener
There's nothing left but to trim the hedges,
your waking hours filled by visions of flowers--
I've come to hate how I wrote them,
faded edges and flashback sounds.
A bad sitcom circled in lies
now a void of wet, beige paint.
My head is full of clean lines,
federal documents with print too small.
My thumbs have fallen off. Soon
not even the plants will grow.
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