Farmers take a no nonsense approach to dung.
They sluice the concrete, sweep through detergent bubbles
until the yard is dinner plate clean.
Yellow maps on the parched lawn,
you can almost hear them sigh with relief
as the flooding rain fills potholes
and the drains can’t cope with the downpour.
The chicken doesn’t have the sense to take shelter,
her feathers darken and plaster the body
in a way that changes the bird out of all recognition,
a bedraggled punk rocker lost at the festival
where normal rules do not apply.
So it is with us.
I’d like to take a hard bristle brush to the yard
and sweep the detritus of our war away.
Clothes drenched on my skin and the relief of peeling them off
and putting something warm and dry on again.
An email alludes to world affairs and concludes
by making light of a sad situation.
Ominous, I think. More clouds, more rain.