Dad’s Work

My father claimed he went to work

every day as an accountant for the County,

but I know better: he was actually

an ecologist obsessed with tending

elegant pink fuschias, manicured lawns

and a parade of rosebushes that circled

our house as he vigilantly guarded

the ecosystem from us, his four selfish

children, wild nuisances who were just

another invasive species threatening

his beloved paradise, to be kept out

at all costs or killed like scrawny rats

in the damp basement, our still warm

carcasses responsibly recycled in the compost

heap out back to keep his yard and his life

green and serene, safe from marauding

kids, those exuberant pests that would never

be included in this ecosystem. His ecologist’s heart

had no space for our unexpected glee, rowdy

noise, scraped knees, broken windows

and busted bike chains, no room for our love

and our need for his care, his cultivation,

for those brief moments after the storms

had passed over our land when dad’s eyes

gazed tenderly towards us almost as if we 
were part of what did matter.