This is not a poem:
too bilious.
This is just to say
that, after my cousins
made so many trips
did so many chores
spent so much money
to prepare for a lovely Easter Sunday
at their grandparents, my great-uncle's, old house,
even blowing last winter's leaves
off the entire private road,
the Professional Bad Neighbor
poisoned us on Easter Sunday morning
making a special trip after Saturday's rain;
and I am still bleeding;
and though I would like to care
about little children in warring countries,
what I really think is
that those countries should grow the bleep up already
and until they do
we should stop listening
to their screams for attention.
We have our own problem.
Glyphosate is its name.
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