There is a gardener in the man,
scattering his seeds,
nurturing his spot of earth,
feeding more than a few needs.
There is a cook in him now,
comfort foods his best,
mostly vegan, sometimes not,
depending on the fest.
There is a husband in him too,
way past youthful fears,
he’s never won an argument,
not one in forty-five years.
There is a Marine somewhere inside,
one who fought beyond our borders,
though he approaches seventy,
he’s still home, awaiting orders.
There is a man of many words,
a writer, mostly a poet,
he sometimes likes his product,
that is, when he gets to it.
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