Gone

A golden brown wooden fence Made by the hands of my dad Trimmed dark green bushes Leaned amongst the borders Encompassing the many colors Bright reds, Dark purples And mellow yellows And best of all A small tree Able to be seen even From the window Of my bedroom Passerby’s usually commented “What a beautiful garden” On a city street, outside a bus stop Beautiful yards were not common Hot days while my dad watered the garden I would sit on the porch With my twin sister One day a channel 11 newscaster passed by Asked my dad what he was doing on this hot day Said watering the flowers and spending time with his daughters She asked how old we were Said we were six Lady then asked us do you ever say anything at the same time And we replied no At the same time This made the newscaster laugh Fourteen years later Still reside on that same city street Same bus passes up and down Same passerby’s walk the street No one admires the garden anymore Passerby’s use our yard as an ashtray Maybe because it looks like a graveyard The golden brown wooden fence is not there Looking outside my bedroom window I can no longer see the tree I can no longer see Bright reds, Dark purples, and mellow yellows I am stuck seeing dead grass and cigarette buds So I planted morning glory flowers Hoping to bring the beauty that was lost And bring back the unity and love This yard showed This yard didn’t always fit the stereotype My dad didn’t always fit the stereotype I didn’t always fit the stereotype And Neither did my mom or my sister

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