Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

In between bearded pots of moss
cedar planters dragged from the sunken fence
to fill space, hide neglected dead heading
there is no gnome sentinel.

No concrete beard, slouched knickerbockers
that make me think we've encountered this before:
the man pushing a cart down Hastings Street
the Santa fear so many children share.

Inconspicuous smile beneath the barren pear
while the dog kowtows to taproots:
in my garden there are no overseers of beddings
fire sale perennials, burgeoning weeds.

In my garden it's difficult to tell what's beyond
the rhubarb fronds: soothsayer house cats
padding foreign territory
slim infants tucked into cracker barrels.

Tammy Armstrong is a wise old soul.