The veronica is so happy
to see–me–
I am their hero, their warrior
brandishing the sharp
green-handled clippers,
suited up in khaki and white,
protected by rubbery blue nitrile gloves,
thrashing about, wading–wading
into mounds, great mounds
of faded purplepinkwhite
spikey spikes:
Take that*Clip that*
Get back humidity, mosquitoes and those damn chiggers–
not even my tall shit-kicker boots
can keep those damn things at bay.
I stop to mop my sweaty brow
with my crumpled up lucky green bandana–
hidden in my back pocket
for times like this–
I tip the wide brim of my hat: 
Carry on, veronica
Godspeed, speedwell 

I”ll be back–

Pulling, pulling
Perry Smith
makes daisy chains from rope
he’ll later bind the Clutters
when he finds it hard to cope
Richard mean and pretty
with a very twisted stutter
Seems to find the robbery
A good excuse for murder
Perrys mother with a lasso
cruelly yanks a calf
His mother being beaten
by his drunk and angry dad
Being poor is aggravation
Aspirin by the can
The Clutters found
Shot and bound
On a treasure map

Hog tied he slits his throat
Hog tied life ends with sturdy rope
Tied in a sweet and sturdy knot

Lady with the Darlings finds
a collar is a source of pride
Aunt Shirley puts the muzzle on
and Lady flees to unbelong
Slurping bread ropes with the Tramp
She finds it once again
The Tramp says now lets go find out
where freedom really ends
The catchers come
so now shes snug
In penitentiary

Then she’s tied up in the yard
The men have come to save her
offering to tie the knot
of what became of that old hat
The Tramp returns
and kills the rat
(The rat would eat the baby!)
with collars on
and pedigrees
The Tramp belongs with Lady!

She’s reading and doesn’t notice me
marvel at her mane of hay-red hair.
A small plastic clip grips one-handed,
like an underweight cowboy trying his darndest
to tame 8 seconds of prairie-wild bull.
The crowd holds its breath, but of course he can’t hold out
and creamsicle tendrils fall like fireworks across her shoulders.
For him, it’s a pat on the back, and better luck next time
For me, it’s summer night and starlight and ask her to dance.

reality rains

scattershot across windshields

herald of daylilies

diviner of would-be kings

until the lightning

It’s late June
The flies buzz around the porch light 
heavy, lazy and hot 
The girls next door play in the yard 
older girls 
teenagers 
catching lighting bugs 
their laughter, the radios low drone
Becoming the soundtrack of summer nights
we don’t normally smoke
but your match strikes in the fading light and I don’t reject your advances
I taste the nostalgia 
My own mama sitting out on the same porch 
watching the day fade into night 
Blowing smoke rings into the darkness 
the memories, they flood me
I don’t rush them away 
not today, when everything is moving slowly 
I hold onto them 
letting the cigarette smoke engulf me
a different kind of baptism 
I’ve changed so much 
yet I’m the same 

If I could step out of myself
without hearing my inner monologue
without feeling the racing of my own heart 

What would I think of my actions
if the rationale, the intent were removed?

From afar, would I notice 
the skin around my cuticles mangled from worry?

And when I stepped back into myself
would I love all of it?

Life imitates art,

The deer trundles through clover,
watches me with black marbles for eyes.
She gums a slice of bread whole, 
inclines her head.
Welded to the spot, I can only stare
and breathe
and return her bow.

Dry yourself, get warm,
wonder, do we deserve the
second chance God gave?

A hard part of being a parent

observing your kid watch a movie scene
knowing heartbreak lurks around the corner
                 inevitable crocodile tears will fall
allowing the pain instead of
saving her from it
sitting with your kid and her grief
enduring your own
filtering with empathy and experience

Harder still

watching your kid’s scene 
knowing heartbreak lurks around the corner
                 inevitable crocodile tears will fall
allowing the pain instead of 
saving her from it
sitting with your kid and her grief and
enduring your own
filtering with empathy and experience 

Hardest yet

sopping up crushed pulp as a sponge 
persevering ablutions as a sieve
filtering with empathy and experience 
separating volatile components of life
refining and freeing the good stuff 
concentrating on the tedious process
distilling it all in front of an audience of one