The Drowning Gull 1 - Page 23

The Secrets of the Weeds

by Tim Kahl

I pull up the weeds that are

drifting into the neighbor’s yard,

pull them up one at a time,

lost in their secrets.

I’m afraid I will leave the root.

The weeds wish to be forgiven

in whatever manner emigres will be.

Their roots reappear like so much

blood on the sheets that needs

to be scrubbed out with peroxide.

Then I drift into my own example

as crow hopping into the highway lane to

retrieve a morsel, but looking both ways first.

Uncanny creature. It scampers

back to the shoulder sure it has

once again outwitted traffic.

I lurch after the bright consumables

in the aisles and survive a mini-crash

of the carts near the cans of soup.

Mrs. Hanf, how is your son doing with

his scales? Can he recite his state

capitals yet? Egad, the whole world

is bent on bettering, but I want to

know why doesn't everyone drive

the same speed as me. I wouldn't

have to castigate the hurried nor slur

the slowpoke who can't find the gas pedal.

I could watch as casually as I do

the fat dog walking his master to the park

and stopping at every corner to reassess

his lifetime of smells. Oh, fat dog of

the morning commute, you better get

your business on, make like the crow

hopping along the edge of sudden danger.

There are broken sprinklers to fix,

eyeglasses in need of repair, figs to pick.

A schedule needs compliance if it is to

keep order among those lost in the weeds

whose secrets linger outside of forgiveness.

The busy agree to their own moral rectitude.

But sloth can buy more real estate in

the realm of time. The taskers are moving

into the neighborhood. Soon they will remove

the weed bed and the weakness.

Issue #1

22