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.