Voices on the Wind
Voices on Aging
by Ken Boe
Iím not sure the money is good
when you get yourself to confession
in the yogurt of your own bed.
The gardener working nights,
no neighbor knows about him
planting dramas into his clay faces.
His garden of petty grievances
staring out from his bay windows
he turns them over to a bent raking.
Each enemy a planted flower
nourished in a compost of fear,
he poses in the hallway mirror
with his bags of discontent.
His knotweed shooting upward,
a thin-rooted harvest always readied.
You might pass him on the street,
his flowers dropping their seed
beneath an agriculture of avarice.
The imagination dead dancing,
processing every slight,
grimacing regiments of revenge.
The clocks are all broken there,
tangled in skits of biblical war
which sooner or later make real
in the hands of the twisted sticks.
The shredded plastic dome.
The split-second reenactment.