Wild Root
1.
We advertise our lives in reflected
main street light. Don’t we? American patriotic glare. Rusty weapons of history. Cinderblock taverns or solemn sweating glasses of beer. I will cut your hair or pour you a beer depending on the light. We imagine our wild roots, the faint nostalgic whiff
of pinwheels spinning with hot air, unapologetic burps of satisfaction
with distortion. Birds of Paradise
don’t survive here. Spider plants
throw off their babies with a neatness
I can only envy. Tell me your story,
friend. Leave me a big tip.
2.
We had an annual parade
until the children got sick
of candy and left town.
Unlike the popular myths
of Americana Almanacs,
our street has no sunny side. Our awnings rattle with rain
and the soft touch of snow stealing your time. That’s why,
a little green madness here
to lure you in. I will show you what I can do to anything unruly. Even the bald need a trim
now and then.