Across the garden,
a croquet mallet's stolid
thunk. Neither pretty
nor rich, the future's not
ours: crust cut
from their cucumber sandwiches
trails away between the hedges.
Dull boy's three-ring binder
is filled w/ protractors,
simple calculators,
unsigned permission slips
but no chainsaw or machete. We
realign the sundial
where it sits in gravel. Could be
gazebo, might be mausoleum.
Nobody's a weevil
in the privet maze, square
in the round; doesn't keep
you out it keeps him in.
There's a pal
for the lunchroom; eating
of his flesh is the least
he could do. Plenty
of it at this age. Not a wolf
but a jackal's paps--a harlot
the mother who bore you
& indeed Nobody's
bored: of the halfassed
labyrinth easier than Pac Man
but no food to be had, nor water
anywhere: drops
to drink & stands
to reason.
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