If only to exist for a moment outside,
     under a loving sun,
     cropped up, unwelcome as a weed
     in an immaculate garden

Where ‘Dress You Up’ plays on repeat
     and the bumblebees swarm with intent
     just beyond the lilac bushes
     underneath our windowsill

That has a fist-sized woodpecker hole,
     open to vicious, hard rains
     leading to mold and general rot
     while the dishes pile up in the sink

And the ants scavenge at all hours
     despite who might be watching
     or dropping cayenne and cinnamon
     along their woesome path.