PLANNING A GARDEN AT THE ALE HOUSE

The missiles roll out on TV.
Booie shows us his pint glass celery stalk.
Mel and the PBS square foot technique.

Garbage gardens, sunset, the boy on the tricycle 

who either needs to pee or cry.

The garden won’t be neat like Mel’s. 

I won’t be buried next to my mother father brother. 

The bread will have more skin than a crust –

unless we find the right river rock,  right squirt gun, 

right intuitive sense of readiness.  

At 5:30 the bar is dark-bright underwater feeling, 

like we’re in a sandwich while it’s being made.

We should really know more. 

Instead I talk about why I’m angry,

strawberry tattoos, why would you dissect the parts like that?

And how does your garden grow  

Booie sings like TV,  

then down-sells us more beer.