my garden

there's fear on the front page of my newspaper.
death is spreading over the editorial page.
they're both falling in pieces
onto section B C D and
even the comics have any weapon at hand
i can think of:
12-gauge shotguns and .22s are the little ones.
they're coming in with one motor gone and
a wing and a prayer
on their lips, but they're coming like a star-spangled parade.
and in Washington, D. C., no one is home.
the big bodyguard is on the news and we all watch his lips move.
he is often heard saying "I am the perfect shot."
kicking in family room doors, his arm moving at lightening speed,
he is looking at his usual target.
it's you.  hey, it's Y O U.
"but i'm only a reader," you squeal, trying to keep the home fires burning.
it does no good, since this is a war/fear planet.
and you wanted Utopia, but Tommy doesn't live here anymore and the neighbors
are under the Witness Protection Act far from where you are, getting it on
some place else.  they even have satellite TV and a flushing toilet.
"Phew!" you exhaled.  and for a moment there, i had you worried. 
you stood, hands on hips, and looked at me with that slightly nervous look, but i
didn't say you were incredulous.  or disbelieving.  no, never disbelieving!
i said you didn't have to live like this.  read that again.
now pass me the bottle, so I can take a swig and let's talk.
you:  "God damn you've gone crazy!"
"Ha, I'm only waiting for the boat."
you:  "There's a boat?  What boat?"
i wait for the boat.
and that's it.  i'm waving and waiting for the tide.
you, on the other hand, should go back to wherever you came from.
oh, and take your fear and death with you.  they're messing up my garden.