After all the circles in your inferno
    all the accusations before the docket
    the nails through the wrist
    the droughts of vinegar and arsenic
    "For the public good"
    the first stone thrown a thousand times
    in the batting cage of our home
    it was I; I was the son of Sisyphus.
    The sons of waste said so.
    It was me who kept the grass green.
    With my garden hose, I kept the lawn alive.
    I pulled the dandelions and weeds of fear
    grown in your dark corners.
    I always loved an angle
    All those weeds I could pull
    but once out they angled for those corners.
    During the day I unshutterred
    the windows for the light.
    But at night in your angles
    they grew anew and I was engulfed
    my back against a thousand corners.
    I waded in weeds, my garden hose a scythe.
    I was the son of Sisyphus.
    That's what the sons of waste said.

Copyright © Richard K. Ostrander, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.