Rosemary is pissed. She is a spice. She really is.

She is sprinkled on the soil of happiness where my roses grow.

Rosemary wants to assimilate with the others, to find common ground. But she is met with thorny propositions, earthworm salespeople–all who claim to glow at night.

The moles promise truth. Oh we do too, the others say, agreeing.

Rosemary knows she is not welcome.  She packs herself up, leaf by leaf. But long after she’s gone the garden remembers her.

She becomes an urban legend, for no reason other than to add color to the backyard. She is never forgotten. The soil is now covered in Corporation. Men and women in suits strain for ideas but only find strange scents with no source.

But we know the source.