Jan/Feb 2013 Poetry


by Christina Thatcher


The concrete slabs held muddied prints
from the neighbor's cat and errant toddlers.

She could hear them outside, stalking and laughing
as she ripped up tomato plants from beside the back gate.

They were green and not yet ripe,
earth still clinging tightly to their roots.

Soon the seagulls would pluck them all,
eager and brazen, from black sacks in her front garden.

And then, the whole street would whisper
that nothing good would ever grow in her house again.


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