Out of the garden
weary and tired,
the strawberry general
was recently fired.

Sent to the kitchen
away from the cries
of robins and slugs,
of finches and flies.

Untouchable now
by all garden beasts
he sits in a bowl
awaiting the feasts

stretching before him
as though they are his,
ignoring the sounds
of a blender’s quick whizz.

Others before him
have fallen this way
young ones and plump ones
have all had their day.

But pompous as always
he sits in the sun,
flourishing medals
he thinks he has won.

—

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