Fascist Gnomes

By Nancy Taylor

My carpet is short and neat
clipped like a crewcut
the color of coffee with
too much milk.
You sleep beside the coffee table.
It is not our time.
We are surrounded by legions,
both furious and mythical,
determined to hasten our fall.
I remember you taller
as you dream without me.
Outside the lawn is covered
with little angry men
in tall red hats and
long, gray beards.
They do not believe in
wall-to-wall carpeting
or cappucino before lunch.
They want their roots raw,
still covered with dirt.
Waging war, they use our
plastic against us.

And
our excuses pile like refuse,
broken and unloved,
in the last garden of hope.