ANOTHER GODDAMN SPRING POEM

ERIC MORRIS-PUSEY

 

A platoon of dandelions crouches in the breeze,
heads frag grenades ready to blow apart.
 
Across the gummy tar street, neighbors
cook out: a girl from one family
 
lobs a rock at a girl from the other.
The fathers keep busy rouging their hands
 
at the propane grill, released
from its tarpaulin prison for the first time
 
this year. A huddled mass of ants
vibrates on the desiccated corpse
 
of an orange lollipop, each one
trampling another. They take tiny bites
 
to console themselves, suffocating
more with each sweetness.

 

 

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