A Neighbor Steals My Marigolds

A Neighbor Steals My Marigolds

The twins wink at me
from their cracked front stoop.
Left of the Door crooks her finger
and a breeze blows through me.
Right of the Door is wearing blue shoes,
but I know she's all talk.
I know the twins are afraidof leaving their porch
with it's parched, unwilling ferns
"It's too dry."
a stain under the mat,
"It's blood."
and dark, illigitimate children peering through the blinds.
"I thought I loved him."

The twins would look better
on my front stoop where a garden is blooming.
Their petals would peek from under lashes
at passers-by, but they would no longer be new.

Anyway, Right of the Door is asking for it with those blue shoes
and her thin, tendril arm waving me in.

"Come down from there and I'll treat you nice."
Right is warm and moist in my hands.
"We're young and we grew here."
Left talks to me and expects to be talked to back.
"Love is a seed"

Left and Right come with me willingly
But all the way home, streetlights cast a symmetrical shadow
with one twin under each arm:
Plant. Thief. Plant.

Right of the Door is as cold as porceline and
Left of the Door is thinking of the gardener
who will be searching for them.