cuffs :: jonathan greene

Off to the city, hitchhikers
secreted in folded denim:
grass seed, sawdust, gravel,
duff, country living’s cache,
hidden chaff.

Kicking up my heels, falling down
drunk, a small dump truck from home
spreads its load on the coddled
carpet of clean uptight
apartment living.

donkeys wallowing :: jonathan greene

The donkeys bathe in dust,
the one spot in the pasture
that shines bright on
full-moon nights.

Moved to another pasture,
they will excavate another crater,
grunt with pleasure scooting
along the ground on their spines,

then rise with festive brays and stand
again, refreshed. Giving the donkeys
a good pat, generations of dust rise up,
coughing out a cloud that engulfs us.

Heirloom carpets that have
never been cleaned, they are soon
back to their non-stop grazing.

the manufacture of rain :: jonathan greene

As the rain starts
it is as if the first drops
are the hardest
to produce.

Some set up time is required,
minute calibrations, calculating
a storm’s severity so that the wrath
of God will be noticed.

Or tuned for the slightest drizzle
so a couple might need to
lean into each other
wordlessly declaring their love.

Once the engines have warmed up,
there is an ease to its repetition.
The walkers with eyes downcast.
The rain returning from foreign seas.