I have a very nice name of my own,
no notion of what made me closet
myself. Little thought went into
the choice. Gardener came from
truth, knowing where, if anywhere,
I might find poems again. Then,
the ghosts of Chauncey and Eve
came calling and the name took root.
I walk slowly, carefully around
the grounds like Peter Sellers,
immersed in my senses like
Shirley MacLaine, being there.
Lending a hand to what grows,
then I like to watch what happens.