the poet's house

          You can always tell the poet's house
          the one with the unkempt grass
          the sagging shutters
          cracked pane here and there.
          The poet doesn't mow his lawn
          very often, believes in
          the meadow theory of lawn care
          thinks pouring poison into the ground
          is a waste of good poison.
          The Carcinogens, next door
          hate the poet and his dandelion
          farm for propagating this species
          of immortal yellow flowers.
          The poet doesn't give a shit.
          He's not playing their silly game.
          He doesn't care to conform
          his postage stamp patch
          of vegetation to their's.
          But the poet is mowing his lawn today
          because the woman across the street
          is mowing hers - in her bikini.
          The poet wears binoculars on a string
          around his neck while he mows
          in the event a red winged whatever
          should alight in his dogwood
          or the lady across the street
          should bend over to pick a dandelion.
          The poet has stopped mowing
          for a while, is taking a break
          has to write this down
          before he forgets it and before
          the dog which Miss Mammary
          across the street loosed on him
          tears the ass out of
          his poor poet pants.