They stood like rhymes
on fencepost spines
with wisdom scrawled
in shaving thymes—
a roadside gospel,
terse and sweet
that preached with
meter, grit, and heat.
Rosemary likes
a clean-shaved man,
if wooing her
is in your plan.
She’ll linger near
and take your hand
and proudly wear
your golden band.
Parsley hides
beside the plate—
the garnish mocked
by those who ate.
But lean in close—
she knows the names
of all who passed
and played their...
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