Interloper
I'm a tangling weed, always have been.
I am the blot on a fine painting,
Beautiful people stampede when I blow my nose.
I mess up the too tidy,
stick out like a crow in a cage for a cannery,
My Adams Apple can be seen from space. -
okay slight exaggeration said for comic effect
but it's a fact,
in a lush meadow full of buttercups
I would be the hairy weed
crashing that bottom-land with my bottom.
Some call my calling, my poetic bawling
too weedy, weedy enough to be pulled up
so as to let the lovely flowers bloom and spread,
but I get my scrawny roots around such pretty words
and squeeze.
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