Oddments

In search of story


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Connections: August 15.17

Rejoice with me, dear reader,

and witness victory:

I’ve grown actual tomatoes

I’m chuffed and filled with glee!

When I walk through a nursery

the tomatoes run and hide

they know my reputation

for black-thumbed tomatocide.

An occasional single fruit

a miser’s salad plate

was the most I’ve ever gleaned

or could anticipate.

But, lo, a red ripe miracle

such glories on the vines!

I’ve danced the gardener’s jig

and changed my name to Heinz.

 

 

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Connections: August 13.17

My family’s in the garden

the past grows ever green

my mom is in the phlox

most surely, though unseen

her dad in the tomatoes

my green-thumbed Grandpa Mauck

son of North Carolina

whose hills rolled in his talk

Grandma O’Hern in moss roses

her summer’s tried-and-true

her son, my dad, in marigold

(the only flower he knew!)

the dill for an unknown

its air a bit of mystery

but I know it figures somewhere

in my leafy family history

I don’t come (as they say) from money

I come more from dirt

so it’s good to feel them back

in horticultural concert.

 

 

 

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Connections: August 8.17

¬†My grandma’s tub had feet

and Olympic-pool-sized feeling

her toilet had a chain

that hung down from the ceiling.

More, the bathroom window

was tall and opened wide

so fresh air and scent of train

could cleanse the room inside.

Now I have this footless

peculiarity

someone mean invented

to taunt and bully me.

It can’t be cleaned without

risking tendinitis

when I fold to fit its contours

it gives me rigor mortis.

It’s called a garden tub

a pity and a shame

someone ought to sue

for slandering garden’s name.

The window can’t be opened

the toilet’s in a box

so I reach way back in memory

where my grandma’s bathroom rocks.

 

 

 

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