by David Roderick

The potted plant.

I am the potted plant,
I sit here and grow.
Every day in every way
I eek my existence out.
From pillar to post,
To post to pillar
The day's activities commence.
This is all I need.
Freedom is a greed,
To be sought, not fought,
With interminable pause for thought.

Rue the betterment,
Rue the indigent,
For want of time.

Repine the day,
It flew away.

When I was, I wasn't.
Now I am, I can't,
Nor shan't; nor a potted plant.

One day, one day,
But it's so grey.
How shall we stay and pray,
So fay.

Itinerant people stare at me,
Expecting me not to notice.
Every look, every crook and cranny,
How's your Granny?
Makes a consequential remark.
So stark, and obvious now,
To me, in fact.
The shrink says little,
Her bones to whittle
Away, some day --- without much further ado.
So it is left to this.
A crease in the ironing,
Much more per item.
To rain, and save the day,
In every possible remarkable way.
How society is out there,
Protected and vigilante,
But regrettably not prescient.
To leave me with bingo,
And the egregious potted plants,
Of which I am.