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Yard Work She's hot-- she's snappish with the yard boy, a 51-year-old Paisan (her very own age), who's high on her smell, but too blitzed on weed and coca to snap under the matronisation and false contempt that she snaps at him, her brittle fingers snapping; but her snappish calm belies her inner volcano, for she, too, grew up in Italy-- "Do you think you can remember to trim the hostas?" she snaps. His own riper smell seeps between their class divisions like a beckoning miasma of whatever bonds there are between them; for they both write sonnets in the same two languages. |
Additional Notes:
This poem has been published in different forms in Bay Review, and Bikwil;
I wonder if I have over-done the "snaps" here. In one version I only used it once.
Whattaya think?
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