LSD and Ecstacy

after Robert Frost

Cast iron railings separate my yard from yours.
On your side, there is a well-trimmed garden
where dahlias, chrysanthemums and roses grow
in neat geometrical patterns.
On my side, the wild grass grows unabashed
with meadowsweet, mayweed, corncockle and devil’s bit
just as the wrens, robins and shield bugs like it;
the only exception is a solitary red carnation
that grows in one decrepit moss-covered corner.

Now and then, you lean over the railing
and shout my name, and we have a short chat,
our heads and hands crossing into each others’ yards.
Ours is a lonely neighbourhood,
and these conversations break the monotone.

I invite you to come over sometime,
and sit in my yard among my birds and bugs,
have a cup of tea with me,
and tell me about your roses and dahlias.
Or do you prefer coffee?

You nod and then change the topic,
and then smile; I try to guess why:
maybe you like the neatness of your yard
and mine brings painful memories
of yours before you laboured and built it with love,
perhaps you fear that you might like my wrens too much,
maybe you feel that your dahlias will feel jealous,
or maybe you love your chrysanthemums so much
that you cannot bear to be away from them
even for a short while.

I do not mind;
my birds and bugs cannot talk
in a language that I can understand,
and I like our little chats
even if they are over an iron railing.

Is this is why they invented LSD and ecstacy,
So that people like you and me
can leave our doubts and cares behind
and jump over some iron railings
to have a little afternoon tea party?

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