You have begun to scatter kernels

for the reality TV stars that congregate

in your farmyard.

No matter, so long as they leave

your garden pristine. The tap tap tap

as they feed comforts you.

You pause, drop a handful of weeds,

consider beans next year where

the zucchini is now. Measure the corn.

No way will you hit knee high

by the prescribed date, but the cast

of that Real Housewives show

still needs their nutrition. A couple

handfuls of spelt, garbonzos,

a riot of goober peas.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.

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