On a Sunday, in the early evening,
and I hear this couple,
screaming their heads off,
and I’m over six foot and I’m looking
through hedgerows, through blossoms,
purples and pinks and orange.
And his hands are around her throat,
and her hands are in the air,
and it’s a hard slap, and it’s sad,
and the orchid blooms incessantly,
while the pot plants
take in the soft, autumn warmth
while the children watch TV.