Poem Garden Poem by James McLain

It is filled with only the fattest roses..
always in bloom..always blushed...
always running to cling to the..boss..
Is he not so spruced as Bruce...to goose?

It is the hair, smooth stones, birds bees,
honey trees of care.
Books filled with bugs found in tiny it's word.

The stream of dreams..where the feet of the
world are washed free of care..where plastic
was never invented..
Heavenly scented, hypoallergenics...such water.
While every woman's bridge is made of wood.