Garbage

It sits beside a sad geranium,
The brown remains of my best friend, a fern,
A plastic pot his mausoleum.
I’ll miss our talks. Our walks. The way he’d turn

Into a human, suddenly, and cry,
You’re crazy! I’m a fucking fern! A plant!
We can’t keep having these discussions! I
Refuse! Please, put me down this instant!

What do I do with him? A yellow flock
Of leaves falls from the trees. We stand outside.
Neighbors have lined up around the block
To pay their last respects. I can’t decide

If I should dump him out and keep the pot.
Are ferns recyclable? Are friends? Guess not.