Imperfect Gardens

I sit in a garden of half-assed patchwork,

Of decades of just-enough maintenance

And occasional fits of resolutions to clean things up.

Textured orange tiles are caked in enough dirt to turn them black.

Solar powered lights that haven’t worked in years still dot the yard,

As their clear plastic turns yellow and opaque

Like bones.

The supports on a metal shed have snapped,

And two sliding shutters are stuck, grounded.

The bottom of a wooden door has turned into a rotten-toothed smile

As it weathers and decays into splintered fangs.

Plants grow in cut up milk jugs fed with banana peel water.

Anti-rust paint is sprayed on top of every joint and hinge

Regardless of the colour that it is meant to be,

Leaving halos of metallic grey hickey to draw my eye.

I sit in a plastic lawn chair spattered with stray marks from careless projects,

Knowing that everything works exactly as it needs to.

And yet, my eyes still look upon imperfection with judgement.

I cannot help but notice how my hands fidget in the silence.