I went out to pick some weeds to
Let off some steam
Starting on a corner of the bed
I pulled the sheet of
Mossy overgrowth that bent back on itself
Revealing dark, soaked mulch
Ants and pill bugs scurrying for cover
A thick network of vines and tendrils
Rolled up like a rug, into a massive heap
Some of them are beautiful
Flowering buds of deep fuchsia
Baby daffodils covered in hot pink fuzzies
I cram it all into kitchen bags
Weeds, mulch, flowers
A laborious effort that leaves me aching
Sweat dripping onto the cup
That I guzzle from

Something falls behind me
Hitting the pavement with a dull thunk
A dark heap behind a white Suburban
I wave an arm to alert the driver
A middle-aged lady with a perm
Comes to a rolling stop
Flicks her eye to the mirror, then back
A grin and shoulder shrug
“What can you do, am I right?”
Returns to speed around the bend

I approach the deserted junk
A decrepit bean bag chair, soaked through
Likely on its way to a dumpster, then a landfill
“This is as good a place as any”
I lift it with a gloved hand
Spilling its entrails onto the concrete
A blizzard of pellets
Blown away by a gust of wind
Fanning out down the drive, into unseen crevices
I turn back to my front yard
Five white bags in a row
Filled to bursting
Ready for trash day