My neighbor frets about his lawn,
and he has reasons—
dandelions, crabgrass, a passing dog.
He scowls up at my maple, rake
clogged and trembling,
as its seeds spin down—
not angels, moths, but paratroopers
carried by the wind,
planting barricades along his eaves.
He’s on the ladder now, scaring
the nibbling squirrels,
scattering starlings with his water hose.
Thank God his aim is bad
or he’d have drowned or B-B gunned the lot. Now he
shakes a fist of seeds at me
where I sit poeming
my dandelions, crabgrass and a passing dog.
I like my neighbor, in his way
he cares for me. Look what
I’ve given him—something to feel superior to.