The things we could do,
we don’t.
The things we might have done,
we didn’t.
You don’t play, I don’t sing,
I hardly ever dance
any more.
I know why
but not so’s I could change it
or even say it.
Stunted growth in a pot,
pushed against the fence
so it blooms on just one side.
I turn its ugly side out in winter,
and hope it’s just the season.
My life is false
in insidious ways
I never meant it to be,
I buy things with a garden motif,
but can’t get myself out to water.