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.

the death of a kentucky coffee-tree :: jonathan greene

Fallen, the large tree
that owned this domain.
Its root ball — flesh-colored
arthritic spikes
that had dug in for its
goodly time.

Seeing daylight
synonyms death.

Saplings that had stunted
in its shadow sing hallelujahs,
compete for new light.

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.