The college tour guide explained
you could work on an organic farm,
right there on campus,
and I kept my mouth shut because
who the hell wants to play Mr. Green Jeans
with so much literature, knowledge, and beer
to consume, and only four years
in which to consume it?
To me, “organic farm” sounds like
a lot of bullshit shoveling, literally,
which I suppose isn’t that different from
a lot of bullshit shoveling, literarily.
Ultimately, both can put food on the table.
I learned to shovel bullshit
as a five year old, or rather
chickenshit I think it was,
which my dad piled into
the back seat of the Peugeot
to spread on his garden.
That’s how I remember it,
piles of stinky dirt called “manure”
which was also something
dogs rolled in, particularly dogs
with long hair like our husky.
My dad would spread manure
on his garden, then spend
sixty hours a day weeding, watering,
and fussing over that
sacred patch of dirt
until it was zucchini season.
It seemed to me that zucchini season
lasted ten months a year.
Stuffed zucchini, baked zucchini,
pasta with zucchini, zucchini with rice.
Zucchinis bigger than my thighs,
piled like firewood ten feet high,
all made possible by manure.
I went to college when it was cheap,
so I could learn a trade and escape
all that manure and zucchini.
Poetry Month 2018
I’ve resolved a few times to write a poem a day during the month of April, and I actually succeeded once. I’m again trying it out. No idea what each day will bring. Some light verse, some politics, some “oh shit I didn’t write anything today” haikus. If you read one and feel moved to comment, please do. If you want to share your poetry, please share!
PS: Today’s poem prompt was… there was no prompt.