Retired

He sulks in his garden,
pouts on his lawn, resents the
enterprise of phlox and daisies,
relishes his hatred of crabgrass,
mopes on the backsteps of his failure
to join the season as a partner
in production. Also he neglects
the rim of prairie beyond the frontiers
of his discontent where sunsets bloom
in crimson success. Slowly his vision
draws in to regard nothing outside
the curb—as for the atom bomb, the
fire truck bellowing up the street
will not cause him to lose a moment
of his hoe’s rhythm.