he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia
the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die
a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom
perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise
he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery
or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns
they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters
liars
he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora
the fauna,
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either