My second-floor bedroom, where I squandered the hours,
Looked down on patio tiles
And a hot tub filled with not water but flowers
Despite my daughterly wiles.

Many times I gazed at the pansies in dirt
And wished to see pure H2O
But no matter how much I'd glower or flirt
My parents always said "No."

Anniversary day, my parents concerted,
Would be spent with just they two.
They on our boat and the house deserted,
And so my plan began to brew.

"I'll go to Kimmy's but can she spend the night here?"
I asked with sweet, innocent eyes.
"As long as you both behave and let me be clear,
No messes, no trouble, no lies."

At seven a.m. they bid me "be good" and "good-bye,"
They'd return at seven that night.
Twelve hours and two girls armed with shovels would try
To soak in it then make it right.

We placed flowers in as many pots as we had,
And used kitchen bowls for the rest,
We piled the soil on a blanket of plaid,
But wore away our youthful zest.

By noon the hot tub was empty but quite muddy
And so, I might say, were we.
So we ate snacks and watched TV in the study.
I woke up a little past three.

"Oh no, Kimmie, you and I are in trouble deep!
We have to make the garden right."
"Not me," she declared and then went home to sleep.
I worked hard and dreaded the night.

At six I cringed to see their car come up our drive.
No time to wash the pots or bowls,
The flowers were planted but no longer alive,
Dirty tile and blanket with holes.

Mom looked down at me from the sliding glass door,
As if a miracle she saw,
Eyes unbelieving soaked in the pots, bowls, and gore.
I saw clenching in my dad's jaw.

No words as they viewed the mess, not even a sigh.
Then Mom did a thing very bad,
She put her arms around him and started to cry,
Then left me with the wrath of Dad!

"Belt," he ordered and I had mine off in flash,
"Pants down, bend over the garden,"
A shriek loud and long greeted the first stinging lash,
But no cries could win his pardon.

How many times did he spank me with my own belt?
I don't know, a hundred or more,
Or maybe it seemed so as he put welt upon welt,
And my tush got so very sore.

When it was over I had to wash it all up.
The sun set as I worked outside.
I washed and dried every last pot, bowl and cup,
He'd pass, smack me and more I cried.

Once I was showered, shampooed and ready for bed,
He came and sat down in my room.
"If you ever do such a thing again," he said,
"That garden might yet be your tomb."