I beg your pardon!

It is certainly not 
a vacant lot!
Nothing vacant about it.
Hasn’t been vacant 
since spring –
farthest thing 
from vacant imaginable
to wit: 472 varieties of fern alone 
each fanning the others
like so many nubians
hired by some portly pasha 
[sitting on his mossy cushions]
and back behind the derelict billboard 
[where kids used to roast potatoes 
just before Christmas]
the out-of-wedlock runaway
of a tigerlily and a passionflower  
[exquisite beauty] is given 
to mild bouts of paranoia 
as she is the only flower of her kind 
in the entire world. She hides
from would-be assassins 
by folding up at night. 
An army of pinhead purple weeds
guards her sanctuary [and I know
she’s got dormice spies 
all over the place] 
and who knows who 
lives under the shanty town milk crate – 
No, it’s the antithesis of empty,  
this, ahem,  vacant lot.            
 
 
 
 
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