The yard is over grown: plants
I don’t recognize, a wisteria choking
a decrepit fence that a herd of rats use
on their evening commute to graveyard
shifts over a drooping garage.
But our strawberries a bright,
and there is a rose plant, and apples.
Miscellaneous life groans impatient.
Who is to judge wheat from tares?
Our fence drops lifeless
limbs into the alley.
The neighbors must be talking. Still,
I am untrained in pruning, and can think of more
pressing matters than weeding—seven seasons of Star Trek:The Next Generation on Netflix for instance.