There are many kinds of sadism
mused the potted plants
during their daily watering
in the south-facing window
with full summer sunbathing.
Water and wilt, wake up just to wane.
Their stems being stalked by a gardener
without pity nor planning.
They struck a deal in brown dapples:
let a leaf go khaki camouflage
and the gardener would eat it.
The parsley would not thrive and would not die.
The gardener changed nothing, not knowing what to change.
Given abundance, given love, daily attention,
the parsley remained passively petulant.
They rooted reluctantly in the spotlight.
“Ignore us,” they whined, “Treat us like the dirt.”
Awash in sunlight, “We love shadow.”
Affection as the opposite of listening.
Triage every day.
