hatchet back these hatchback days,
vined and clotted up with vetch.
crop down these crop-up weeds,
these sorrels, these torrid-rain-soaked greens.
 
my car is black and scarred,
and my back is wracked too far
from sitting on my ass all day.
 
but
 
the primroses are pink now, and the coneflowers are calling me
out past the clover,
‘see something’ for once
from behind that seat, behind that steering seal.