After lopping off
A limping male poetic
Limb or two, the liberated
Muse’s shark-like mouth
Cannot be said to be
Sardonic, nor her smile ironic,
Sow
Plenty of progeny,
My son—
Weed the pigweed
From the garden
When they’re young.
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
Ladies and gentlemen,
Boys and girls,
See how he twists and turns
Before your very eyes,
Beyond the lake, morning begins to form.
Although everything seems possible,
My father sits quietly in the parked car
Staring out at the clarity of the dawn sky.