Up the Garden
He lays down slime
like some weary highway worker
Trudging up the vague garden path
Towards a patch at the back
Where he finds it pleasant to dwell.
You watch him and think
This could only be the work of evolution
Or a cruel God that lets one of his creatures
Carry something resembling an inflamed bladder
On its wet hump,
Children, in their innocence,
Call his home.
But perhaps closer to the mark is a
memory of home,
The thing wanted
Amplified into a hardened coil
That sits, like a tumour lump,
Somewhere in the back of the subconscious,
Inventing tales of what home was like
And how glorious it would be to return to.
Meanwhile his one muscular foot
Tries to set anchor on a blade of grass.
With a cold Chardonnay on the table,
I hook the poor deluded creature
With a thin miniature fork,
Making me the devil in this game.
It pops out and falls – all in accordance with my plan-
Into the hot garlicky butter sauce.
I gobble it down then throw away its home.
If you've any comments on this poem, Hassan Abdulrazzak would be
pleased to hear from you.