The August Garden Makes Me Want a Lobotomy
My yard genetically engineers monsters
in the guise of green trench coats and coy
cloche hats. Berries and seeds ride every
wheeze, every exhale from my swamp-air
laden lungs, scattering their troops
to sprout from hidden trenches.
Never mind the birds.
Hungry birds. Always the birds.
Spreading these beasts into every niche
of my odd-numbers-look-natural
planted plot that doubles as my grocer.
Where are all the Paleo-fanatics?
I’ve got an all-you-can-eat
buffet of dandelions to pair
with your mastodon skewers
and this diet will surely work
dreams of bikini-ready bodies.
Fruitless blackberry vines have eaten
my azaleas and I can’t say I’m mad
at them, but I’ve got their aqua
tofana of vinegar and salt water
on the rocks ready to serve.
And what is this trunked brute?
I know I didn’t plant a tree,
but here stands, like on royal
guard, a weed so strong
I could attach a hammock
and take a nap in its shade.
The August garden makes me want
a lobotomy. Blistered palms, sunburned
shoulders, joints vice-gripped
into claws. I revel at the thought—
frozen, February faces.