A rattletrap in the S.U.V. procession,
our freeway clog,
veers into my lane (close call!),
old Chevy towing a load—
bristle of rakes, mowers
and shovels, hoses, a dust blower,
a wooden ladder, boxes of gear.
It’s the garden rescue squad,
out to cleanse impurities,
clip off excrescences,
brighten the zinnia bed,
Van Goghs of greenery.
Their wagon racing before me
wears an admonition:
Que Dios te trate como tú tratas a mí.
God treat you just as you treat me.
