The Secrets of the Weeds
by Tim Kahl
I pull up the weeds that are
drifting into the neighbor’s yard,
pull them up one at a time,
lost in their secrets.
I’m afraid I will leave the root.
The weeds wish to be forgiven
in whatever manner emigres will be.
Their roots reappear like so much
blood on the sheets that needs
to be scrubbed out with peroxide.
Then I drift into my own example
as crow hopping into the highway lane to
retrieve a morsel, but looking both ways first.
Uncanny creature. It scampers
back to the shoulder sure it has
once again outwitted traffic.
I lurch after the bright consumables
in the aisles and survive a mini-crash
of the carts near the cans of soup.
Mrs. Hanf, how is your son doing with
his scales? Can he recite his state
capitals yet? Egad, the whole world
is bent on bettering, but I want to
know why doesn't everyone drive
the same speed as me. I wouldn't
have to castigate the hurried nor slur
the slowpoke who can't find the gas pedal.
I could watch as casually as I do
the fat dog walking his master to the park
and stopping at every corner to reassess
his lifetime of smells. Oh, fat dog of
the morning commute, you better get
your business on, make like the crow
hopping along the edge of sudden danger.
There are broken sprinklers to fix,
eyeglasses in need of repair, figs to pick.
A schedule needs compliance if it is to
keep order among those lost in the weeds
whose secrets linger outside of forgiveness.
The busy agree to their own moral rectitude.
But sloth can buy more real estate in
the realm of time. The taskers are moving
into the neighborhood. Soon they will remove
the weed bed and the weakness.
Issue #1
22