I’ve decided to just worry about my weeds
I’ve no name for them
the ones that grow awkward in places
out of line
with that dishevelled hippy look.
I wonder when they became unfashionable
these weeds with nasty names for gardeners.
My lawnmower—Otis Wolff T41 something or other—
does not discriminate between one or the other.
Given his way you would not see one fucking green thing
rise more than two inches off the ground.
(Of course, Otis, makes a hell of lot of noise—so you don’t get to hear the / screams.)
He fucks them all. Green, less green, darker green.
He’s fair, this Otis. Fairer than Whitman.