stopping up roots

The boxed walls of the vegetable patch
are squatting outward again, yanking up
the soil and no doubt stopping up roots.

I'd pull them back in, but why bother?
The cilantro invaded the thyme last week--
and where the lettuce came from, I don't know.

I had a pot of rosemary, thinned out now
from the stews and roasts. I sit porched in
by the screen, drinking dominican beer.

There is the candle-jar for an ashtray,
and a bobcat out by the red canoe--
now when did he move in? He crouches, watches.

And my contribution here is the wind chime,
by which I count hours in heaves and sighs
--offends my alarm clock but pleases Aeolus.

A bit of ash has got onto my jeans, gone down
into my throat. A cough, and the bobcat flicks his
ears back, banishes me from his kingdom.

I push the boards back into place, and the vegetable
patch looks cramped. Well, why not? I say. Me too.
Why should we be different, as subjects planted?