Poor, Poor Mr. Figgie

 

Look!  Have you ever seen anything like it?  Here it is, becoming razor clean, curdling and hurling its leaves across the living room rug.  And after I saved its doomed life ahead of that wicked wind storm last week, this is the thanks I get.

Now, here it is — newly potted, watered, clucked over and given a special name and an honored place in the living room.  Still, it throws leaves at me in tantrum, imolating itself with little fires of crispy curled-up leaves.

Maybe I should turn it to the left just a bit.  Will that fix it?  Will that arrange and assuage the thing so it will stop its keen drip, drip of leaves?  I hear it in the night.  Drip.  Drip.

It’s squatting in the corner like a little naked man, rattling its bones and hissing at me.

Here, I’ll spritz it with cooling water.  I’ll croon and sing to it.  I’ll drape love over it.  Give it another dose of fertilizer. 

And if all fails?  Well, then … poor, poor Figgie. 

Besides, I have my eye on a nice plastic dracaena that gives me a wink and a come-hither look every time I go to Costco.


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