That taproot sends a shoot up in the lawn.
I mow it down like some alien spawn
that bursts out of a friend's chest at dawn
and not just any dawn, but the one
from which the plucker emerged; the promised one
now lies on the grass, the dew in the sun
sparkling not nearly as much as the lines.
Listen, lines stem from lies. I mean pure lies
curl those lips like petals. No surprise
really, as the ass is always greener
than the hands, the knees, the shoots far meaner
where the low-rise jeans don't rise; the leaner
among us can attest to this, know fear,
yet as yellow as the yellow get, near
as I can tell, the plucked are nowhere near
as bright in the plucker's green grip. Plucked blooms
wilt in a pile. Sap sticks. The plucker assumes
the bloom's position, ass to the ruins.