Who am I

To stand in judgement

Of the gardens of grief

Tended by others.

Their blue ribbon efforts

Are born witness by the blistered belief

That misery must grow in rows

And tended just so, less happiness

Sprout as a weed.

I’ve my own garden to mind,

Chasing away

the vermin of pleasure,

Watering against

The droughts of better days.

In my trophy case,

Well-lit behind sparkling glass,

Stands testament

That there are those

Who will judge

And it is to them that

I salt this tomato.