What Might You Find in the Shed of a Gardener?

Why--you may ask when you look at the plethora of tools,
hanging on individual hooks lining the wall,
many unused, never to be used by the muddy hands of the gardener.

Some have been gifts, or others I picked up—
maybe at the garage sale down the street, or a fellow gardener
was willing to part. Perhaps I found it in the garden I claimed to be mine.

Others came with meaning. The rusty blades of a hard used tool
that came with sweat stained handles. My grandfather’s hands—
so many memories, I find it odd why I was so lucky to be holding his tools.

My hand fit the grooves that had long since been empty. I rubbed
the handles that lined the wall of the gardening shed and realized—
although, some handles had never been used and others were worn

a story could be told and would be told-
in the shed of a gardener.


I Must Admit, I Wanted To Be Sandy

and have Danny
boy from the beach,
all to myself

love at first sight,
for the secret bird
never expected to meet again
the man with the smooth skin
and letter-man’s sweater
soft voice
and gentle kiss

blessed with virginity
wholesome and pure
gone bad
a member of the ladies
Pink to be exact

tough
untouchable
and bad
the man from Rydell High

snap of his finger
sly dimpled smile
the tilt of his head
in my direction:
Come on Sandy, let’s dance.