Letter to the Gardener

There's nothing left but to trim the hedges,
your waking hours filled by visions of flowers--
I've come to hate how I wrote them,
faded edges and flashback sounds.
A bad sitcom circled in lies
now a void of wet, beige paint.

My head is full of clean lines,
federal documents with print too small.
My thumbs have fallen off. Soon
not even the plants will grow.