But Who Am I

My potted daffodils perversely spurn
Onto the floor their miffed-noses careen
Nature's affronted and my knowledge awry
I’m helpless to know why
Why does the ivy wilt and each clay urn
About the house drop in dejected green?

Outside, beyond the patch of crabgrass lawn
Live the unkempt cousins, vine and thorn
Who burst like vibrant antelope
Excrescently leaping over the slope
In gustos of inebriate tangled bouts
They clamber and spread their choking routs.

More years than I have mazed that yard
To its wild extravagant disregard
But who am I to slaughter strife
That cannot to a pot give life?

Peeping-Tom at the Window

Are you one of the three-out-of-five Americans who have seen, heard or intuited a peeping-Tom (hereinafter referred to as PT)? PTs get as much respect as atheists (who’ll tell you that morality needs no God and, if you stand still too long, will further impart that God’s perpetual watching makes your religious morality less impressive than their might-get-away-with-it morality). And who wants their daughter bringing home to the parents a PETA vigilante who grimly informs them over Coq au Vin that horrifically-farmed chickens are shackled and conveyed upside-down and terrified to the circular saw. PTs, then, are easily bettered in evil, their circle of Hell no more than a daily cold dousing, one assumes not unlike the English weather, and they are to be pitied their risky endeavors when far more graphic stuff (I’m told) freely abounds on the Internet. Paul Kirk, a librarian PT is the doubtful hero of my novel, Boiled Peanuts and is a likeable guy, once you abandon your PT scruples. While he is too modest to consider himself a paragon, the truth is that, some have benefited from his night-time vigilant citizenry. I urge you to read this book if you think your daughter might bring home a PT.
Not that I advocate rushing outside to drag in a PT to meet your bookish daughter, almost always it’s nothing but a skunk in the garbage or a stink-bug scratching at the window-screen.

The Toothbrush

The toothbrush stands erect within its jar
It wears its life in skirmishing so far
Among the detritus the spittle and catarrh
In hope some breath of lustre will dignify its works
With stiffness availing, the toil it never shirks
But, solid-functioning, liquefaction lurks.

Alone upon the shelf it dreams
Of slender neck and dainty-colored themes
A mate on whom its bristled beams
Might shine, but none appears to fondly brace
To lean together touching for a space
Finally, sad-faced, to its resting-place.