Landscapers

We try to talk about the future,
but we live in terraces, we cannot breathe
until we hear the mowers scream,
heads rolling from daisies.
Our hearts are green, our walls
are straight beige, TVs sit serene
in our corners. We are landscapers.
We edit the red-eye from the family dream,
clip the corners of our words, we
tend to window-baskets, vacuum clean
cobwebs. We try to talk
about the future, but how to fit it between
the daily struggle for order, the sheets to be laundered,
the need to leave some things unseen?
 
Nina Parmenter
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter would be pleased to hear them.