A painted clay flowerpot
broken, replaced by one of plain
red ceramic, replaced with
a thick plastic one
that is then forgotten
or abandoned during a move
across town, which is then replaced with
a discarded pickle bucket;
so goes the cycle.
Every year we plant the same small
selection of annuals
in this year’s pot of choice
or necessity. Every year’s
a tradedown,
but we try to maintain
the traditional facade,
which is why I’m drilling holes
in the bottom of this year’s pickle bucket
and picturing the flowers — petunias
or pansies or whatever looks good
in the store when we go —
spilling over the sides in glory.
Maybe this year
we’ll measure up — even after
downscaling, even after
the shrunk-budgeting. Maybe
this year, at last, it will look
like the pictures
on the seed packages.
Like all the pictures
we’ve ever seen.
Dark Matter 