Homo Suburbiensis

One constant in a world of variables - A man alone in the evening in his patch of vegetables, and all the things he takes down with him there Where the easement runs along the back fence and the air smells of tomato-vines, and the hoarse rasping tendrils of pumpkin flourish clumsy whips and their foliage sprawls Over the compost-box, poising rampant upon the palings ... He stands there, lost in a green confusion, smelling the smoke of somebody's rubbish Burning, hearing vaguely the clatter of a disk in a sink that could be his, hearing a dog, a kid, a far whisper of traffic, and offering up instead Not much but as much as any man can offer - time, pain, love, hate, age, ware, death, laughter, fever.