Misnomer

I sat outside my deli again
waiting for that daily sandwich
and smoking that hard-to-shed habit.

There was a clay flower pot
next to my right leg
about two feet tall
suggesting that it was very deliberate
at least at one time.

It appeared to be forgotten by its Italian owners, though.
The only living things residing within the boundaries of
its chipped finish that'd been dulled by acid rain
were a few determined ants
and a poison ivy plant.

At one side of its circumference
was a black and withered flower.
A tag was stabbed into the soil next to it
like a tombstone-- "Draga" was the breed apparently.
I guess it wasn't as strong as its namesake implied.

It didn't seem like such a sin to shove my butt
into the wasted soil; I liked to think myself quite the Samaritan
for helping that dragon breathe fire one last time.

You'd be right in assuming that when I'm not berating my failures
I'm giving myself too much credit.
A fluent German-speaker once told me that my surname
has something to do with water, but I'm convinced
that it translates as "No happy medium."



Currently reading:
"A Farewell to Arms" by Ernest Hemingway.