I. She asks me to cut the grass, She seems so connected to Tulips and roses And so offended by a few Blades of green. Elizabeth's garden is Grown over with weeds-- But still she asks me Not to tear a single stone down. If for a few splashes of color She wants me not to touch a thing, I'll keep my hands to myself And tend to the yard I keep. Patches of clover, A few stubby Bits of Saint Augustine, But mostly dirt. I've seen graveyards greener Than my yard And jungles neater Than Elizabeth's garden. II. I asked him to cut the grass, A man so lazy Should do more than Chew on Unlit cigarettes. Bags don't mind being filled By discarded grass And I don't mind seeing them stacked By the curb. He insists on eyeing my garden's Three-foot high wall Seeing creepers and vines Crawling up the side Saying he can fix it up quick-- But there's so many bare patches By the walk I wonder how he can Focus so soundly on A simple garden wall Meant to keep out Rabbits, or at least, The thought of rabbits. But I don't grow carrots. I grow tulips, Roses, And I don't mind Being surprised Finding flowers in Tangles of grass, Little discoveries Among the weeds.