Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
Poet Laureate Of My Garage
Buddha is
in my garage
his likeness
that is
Chipped, faded
in lotus position
impervious to the
passing of time
Eyelids half closed
surrounded by old
empty beer bottles
meditating stoic
Sitting blankly
atop industrial shelf
where other men
would keep tools
I’m hopelessly
inadequate at
manhood, more so
being human
Mans tools
build walls
and mine tear
them down
My tool is
this pen and
I use it like
a pickaxe
with it I am
poet laureate
of this garage
watching squirrels
scurry up and
down the oaks
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