Monday, March 29, 2010

That Taproot

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.


Brenda Schmidt said...

I lifted for the fun of it. Good exercise on this fine spring day.

Zachariah Wells said...

Ha! Nice.

Brenda Schmidt said...

Thanks! Couldn't resist. :)

Paula Jane said...

I'm impressed that you have a reference to "Alien" in there. *g* I'm proud of you.

Brenda Schmidt said...

Thank you! I was hoping you'd notice! There's hope for me yet!