April 28 : Weeds at the 11 o’clock service


I’m not Johnson grass—lithe stalks topped with golden grains.

Never have I been so elegant or agreeable to crowding.

But it seems someone’s always spritzing me with Roundup®.

The DDT clogs my brain, makes me want to walk

in front of a bus, eat moldy bread. Just once.

Or twice. To see what happens.

To see if what my neighbors say is true.


I don’t mind my weedy neighbors who cross-pollinate

inappropriately or bring down property values.

I keep my soil loose, rootgoose the earthworms,

watch for lawnmowers, try to look useful—

look like a useful plant to the reptilian shape-shifters

taking my pew at the 11 o’clock service.


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