Hedge With A Hole Poem by Donal Mahoney

Stretched on the couch
by the living room window,
too tired to rise,
verify locks and the stove,
officially retire, he hears outside
blasts of a curse, fists, and feet
running. In the morning,
before he leaves for the train,
crisp in his seersucker suit,
he walks around to the window,
finds creeping bent torn,
roses beheaded,
the hedge with a hole
the girth of a man.
He will be too upset
this morning
to read his paper
on the train.