compost bucket

By the wooded creek a clearing.
Down here lies a resting meadow.
To the mound and bridge a meeting
crowned with— a gazebo!

The birds and bugs and sticks don't mind
something special just for humans.
Just don't expect bird song to find
by the interstate and route ten.

On patterned mowed parkland
purebred dogs bark
behind tight fences
because no one sits
behind the plastic mini mansions
on their mindless window sides
in the drainage ditch gazebo.

God damn it.
Not another gazebo.
Now I have to write a stupid poem.