Why My Neighbor Hates Me

In France two hundred years ago, our quarrel
Would have had a certain gravity. It doesn't now.
Look yonder; there's my neighbor, Bill. Look longer
Yonder and you'll notice that his yard is nearly
Perfect. Not one weed is in his lawn, which ends
On edges sharp as knives, and all his shrubs are
Shaped and placed in rows, and every fallen leaf
Is raked, and every stepping stone is clean. Now,
See what I have done (or haven't; that's what Bill
Would say). I've let the dandelions grow. Their
Yellow flowers and their puffy heads of seeds
Have made my lawn a much more festive thing
Than his. I haven't even planted shrubs. Instead,
I've let the forest come again, and look what it has
Brought: the ashes and the redbud trees, the
Junipers and all these unnamed bushes, and the
Bugs and birds and rabbits, sometimes deer.
Bill has said he wants to kill me. He's Descartes,
And I'm Rousseau. He is Ingres. I am, at best,
Inness, probably Derain. He is mind and
Classicism, mankind's sorry fairy tale of
Domination of the world. I am heart, Romanticism,
Pleased as hell to let the forces he keeps thinking
He has beaten cross my lawn to make a fool
Of him.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 17 times
Written on 2011-03-03 at 17:00

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