Rick The Hick


(or Losing The Plot)

He furrowed furry eyebrows
Like he furrowed in my earth
The rows were angled crazily
My giggles turned to mirth.

But when, behind the plow horse,
He tripped upon the lines,
Ole Dobbin ran o’er blackberries-
I should have heeded signs…

For then he came to excavate
The thyme that grew each year
My herb section would never be;
I shed a tired tear.

To get him from my garden,
To save what roots were left,
“Could my wagon be unhitched?”
His fingers moved so deft

UNTIL he realised rocks were piled
Upon the backside’s ramp!
Up sprang the hitch and lopped his thumbs-
The blood pored o’er the clamp.

Two weeks it took before he tried
To find my plot once more.
The greenhouse I was building
With old windows and a door

Needed someone on a ladder
To hold the windows high-
(Where would I be safer?
Where less chance to die?)

Rick said he could manage
On his own, needed no help.
But I’d no sooner set to weeding
Than I heard a mighty yelp!

Of course he’d fallen off the rung,
Of course the glass had smashed.
It took another month in bed
Before Rick appeared, abashed

Requesting yet more garden work.
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted very much to say
“I’ve others I can choose”…

But nope, he’s the only choice I’ve got
A klutz in garden or in house.
This true tale I’ve recounted
Is of the fool who is my spouse.

J. Ivanel Johnson is the pen name for a disabled author who lives in the Appalachians of New Brunswick, where she and her husband manage self-sufficiently on their farm overlooking inspirational views of nature. Her most recently published work is a 10-page poem in Cat Ladies of the Apocalypse. Follow her on Twitter @JIvanelJohnson.

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