30 poems in 30 days: 19

I can't believe I've made it this far.  As a result, today I promise to write something that not only isn't a poem, but doesn't even resemble one from far away.  It will be (obscure Brit pop culture reference coming, wait for it) hopelessly dribbly, can't write for toffee, crappy poetry weed.

So here goes.

Poetry Weed
        -- for Linda 

Wouldn't it be marvelous, darling, if we could
pop a poetry pill, or better yet grow and then
smoke a magical poetry plant that would
all of a sudden remove the veils from our eyes,
drill down into our muddled gray matter to
peel back all that hopeless encoding, that
material translation, that confusing blah blah,
that it usually throws over things as they are,

and wah-freaking-lah, my friend, we'd be looking
at the world through the purple 3D lenses of
pure poetry?

In the fall, I'd plant a wall of that herb
all along my back fence, the spongy dip
where rainwater collects in sludgy ponds,
and harvest it in June, smiling all the while
at gray-haired Ruby, standing arms akimbo
in her rubber gardening boots, squinting,
suspicious, by her compost bin.

I'd hang and dry it, and sometime in July,
you'd come over.  I'd cook up a big pot of
red beans and rice, lay in a supply of good
red wine, and we'd eat and drink ourselves
into a near coma.  And then, by some miracle
of human transportation, we'd get you out of that
damn chair and up onto the kitchen roof,
where we'd sit and look through the maple tree
into the clusters of stars, both of us hale and
relatively hearty, mentally alert, but definitely
mellow -- at peace with the world and our
places in it.  And we'd puff on big
poetry cigars together, exhaling poetry in
smelly gusts over the rustling maple leaves,
molecule by molecule adding poetry to
the darkening air, the clouds of unhurried
insects, the click and throb of crickets,
molecule by molecule leaking our poetry
out over the sleepy city.