imageHermit In May
W.P. Osborn

All right, you twitching hop-toe scalawag,
out of my raised bed. That there’s young lettuce—
romaine, your Boston, leaf red. I’m the boss
of this dirt rectangle, and I will tag
your twistening ears with a mauve chartreuse
paintball, squirt your fuzz hind end with water
hard out this hose nozzle. Things the matter
here, I don’t permit. I eat this stuff, you
know. Sure, I chopped your naked sucklings not
two, three weeks ago. But am I to blame
you’d born them under-root the sapling ma-
ple volunteer I spaded out? You ought-
n’t make it personal. Luck played bad then.
If you don’t get, I mean it to again.