I’ll stand up to stray raccoons
I’ll play your favorite song on spoons
I’ll carve you valentines in runes
But I won’t mow the lawn
The pollen makes my eyelids swell
My alveoli start to gel
I gain a painful sense of smell
Until the hives have gone
The neighbors say their eyes are sore
Complain our curb appeal is poor
But I don’t listen anymore
Because my ears are stuffy
All right, you win, I’ll cut the grass
Then spend the weekend on my ass
Until the histadizzies pass
I hope you like me puffy
Day 3: Approaching normalcy.
The histamines are in retreat;
My sinuses are nearly free
Of mucus, like an empty seat
At rush hour on a crosstown bus.
The lawn is mocking, beckoning:
Don’t mind the weeds, come play with us!
It’s not their day of reckoning
Just yet. Though they’ve defeated me
In spring’s first skirmish, this is war.
Grow, broadleaf, massive as a tree!
That’s what my Fiskars Stand-up’s for.
I use knives
The grass survives
It uses pollen
I get hives
Sorry for the tardy warning
You’ll have surely learned by morning
Beers make decent Slug-B-Gones
But they’re attracting leprechauns
Happy Father’s Day to you
Who are or have or know one. To
The dads among us, raise a glass!
What? Right. Yes, sir! I’m off your grass.
Silly bunny on my lawn,
You squat. I wish you’d not. Begone!
You lift that little tuft of cotton
On your bottom, and the rotten
Pellets underneath fall out
Upon the grass that months of drought
Have worn into a state precarious.
I think saying “poop’s” hilarious;
Seeing it destroy my grass
Is less delightful. Move your ass,
I beg, to some locality
Resistant to fecality.
You’re welcome anytime to graze
Or even piddle, but I’ll raise
A strong objection if you poo.
Verstehen Sie? Please say you do–
Or, rather, won’t doo anymore.
That’s what my neighbor’s dogs are for.
I’m sitting here inhaling cat
At 45 degrees north lat.
And though the dander makes me weepy
More than anything, I’m sleepy.
Sure, I’d love to go to bed
But it’s still light outside. Instead,
I’ll wheeze here on the sofa as
My neighbor’s power mower has
A fine old noisy time beneath
My bedroom window. When my teeth
Are fuzzy from the floating fur
My cat claims couldn’t come from her
Perhaps I’ll catch a break and find
My ear canals are also lined
With clumps of erstwhile poils de chat.
What mower could compete with that?
My histamines and I will rise
And bid good-night to lightful skies.
Upstairs I’ll fall upon my knees
At bedside, bow my head, and sneeze.
If, subsequently, I can climb
Atop the bed, I will, but I’m
Not greedy: If the effort’s more
Than I can make, I’ll take the floor.
(Don’t worry, since the cat’s been shedding
Everything’s as soft as bedding.)
Hey, according to my tongue,
My teeth are fuzzed! The night is young
(Still in gestation, as it were)
But I’m so thickly caked in fur
I can’t detect the faintest note
Of mowersong! That’s all she wrote.