Interlopers

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,

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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.

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