West Altadena

Neighbors

pass, two lines of smoke

in hooded sweatshirts,

from the sober living house

next door, as I stand in the front yard

watering dirt.

I ask little of the garden—

mere inspiration—working

my shovel into bare earth.

While witnesses in neckties

carry scriptures, county sheriff

circles the block.

A couple fights

in a hot car. They get out of

the car and back into the car.

Pressed down

where sunflowers bow,

bird-pecked,

toward the sun—my meditation

in the lawn: harvesting

seeds, shaking loose

from beheaded mammoths

those marvelous darlings

tucked inside their compartments.

They want to save me.

They want to put me under.

I keep my ear to the ground.