“I tripped over my wiener,”
a frank and sturdy slip
into a sweet-watered community.
Suburban hell:
plastic tulips fight
over the mangled sunlight jaws,
jaundiced crabgrass
gnaws at the broken sidewalk cracks,
Concrete and iced tea winds lead to
white picket welcome signs —
misleading misnomers
(no one is welcome in my home)
Ducks, lots of ducks
(carry the u and/or i)
Muscovy, Mallard, Pekin,
glutinous little cretin,
but none as thickly fun loving
as (i)
Dead squirrel like a beach towel
spread on the sidewalk
He died a brave man, diving for nuts.
(more than i can say for lil’ ol’ me)
Patriotism took a squat
over this bourgeois block.
No one told them:
MAGA flags ain’t decorations,
and no one wants to see you
in your American Flag underwear at 5 A.M.
or the pup poking his head from you white and red
sniffing the air for his sweet little stray,
a fat, flirty, fierce orange pussy
(cat)
Get your mind out of the gutter!
Come on, man! There’s children here!
And the sheriff lives down the street!
Back the Blue yard signs bunting his yard like
whiskers, marking his territory;
it is all his, and none of it is mine
(i am his)
(he is a man)
(what is happening)
(???)
**
I am claimed, branded podunk,
sun spitting freckle seeds onto my shoulders.
A man drives by in a red pick-up truck
bearing brown scars from a day of mudding
with a bumper sticker that proudly reads,
“I tripped over my wiener!”
The fenders wag smugly,
proud of their brother. His joke.
I will laugh too, it is polite
(to polish gutter holes)
(for my man)
Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Southeast United States. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and several other honors. Her work has been featured with Poets.org, Pithead Chapel, Contemporary Verse 2, Minola Review, Broken Pencil, and more.