Gardening Leave

Being paid to not show up to work.
It sounds like a fantastic deal, doesn’t it?
What could be better?
What, indeed.
How about not being considered so much of a threat,
Or so unpleasant to have around,
They don’t need to pay you to stay home.
What is one supposed to grow in this garden?
Delightful sweet Gratitude, perhaps?
Or maybe, some other fruits.
Rotten Resentment.
Hard Bitterness.
Sour Self-Doubt.
All very difficult to swallow and digest.
There’s no pleasure in this garden.
No satisfaction.
Only missed opportunities,
Still clinging to their branches,
But well past their prime,
And peak freshness.
Dried up and no good.

English, motherfucker, do you speak it? J/K - it's ok if you don't.

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