The garden of earthly preoccupation
By Parson Thru
Guilt is sunning itself in the garden.
Upturned plates on supermarket steaks
deny the flies, whom,
would indulge, given half a chance.
Paranoia patrols the old suburban streets,
seeking new justifications.
The garden is resting,
save for a few workingclass pigeons,
and my mother.
Blue buses busy themselves among the cafes of Counter-Earth.