Mitchell Metz


Our groundcover grows
like gangbusters,
chokes the creeping charlie.
I transplant ferns and hosta,
glisten ripe, flump
flagstones for you.

Come.  Tell me what to do,
how you want your fiddle-
heads.  Bring me iced tea

to gulp greedy.  Whisper up
from khakis your rich aroma;

wink your gangbang fantasy
into the leather of my boots.

Then go feed the kids
and watch me bust my balls

from the bay window.  Be wet
while you make my sandwich.

I won't hurry in.  I'll be lost
where sweat is the filthy lucre,

spade and hoe
the means of distribution,
and interest rates respond

to fluctuations in muscle.
I'll be inventing dirty dramas

in which I bust gangsters,
choke charlie the creep, bang
and cover you.

Publications: Southern Poetry Review, California Quarterly, Eye Dialect, Melic Review, Stirring, etc.
Editor for: Eclectica

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