The summer weeds rise up
profusely green on high stems.
The vine writhes, and intertwines
with its own long branches down the fence.
The squat pots for approved flowers
stand empty, their contents dead
long before the rain revived
the sleeping seeds of weeds
to green my garden beds.
Languid Eleven drawls to enumerate
her list of expensive Christmas presents,
forgetting to thank her grandmother
for a thoughtful but more modest gift.
I can almost discern the grandmother's hand
twitch (like mine) with a spanking itch.