a numbered post for lucas green
A newspaper over the sink to catch the hair — last year’s headlines.
It seems some ants don’t work at all, & the others never notice.
The peepers’ convocation is full of ominous silences.
When we kept pigs, my brothers and I would take turns grabbing the electric fence.
Every curse was a dollar closer to owning the OED.
Green tomatoes into the hot pickle crock & dollar bills into the jar.
The first year we had pigs, we ate their brains & called it head cheese.
In Taiwan, I could never bring myself to eat fried chicken feet.
Tadpoles in the shrinking puddle bum-rush each fallen catkin.
Bobbing in the wind, a bumblebee beside the bleeding-hearts.
Bleary-eyed, I run electric clippers over my scalp.