Mushrooms

I would resort

to that infamous

poet’s crutch and write

a poem about a poem

but I am sure

you would not be interested

in that, dear reader.

Instead:

the mushrooms

growing in my neighbor’s

meticulous yard among

her vine-wrapped archways

and non-seasonal,

non-indigenous flowers

and how

they are so much like poems –

little reminders that cultivation

is not everything,

and that, with enough

soggy gray days

and a fair amount of fecal material

life can spring up

just about anywhere.

Then again, that may just be

the mushrooms.