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Pigweed and Me

By Richard R. Cuyler, Salida CO

The goddamn pigweed’s sprouting everywhere!

I’ve pulled and pulled and pulled and still there’s more.

They’re even more invasive than before

despite deracinations just last year.


I plotted mass extinction, and now pledge

again to finish off the bastards for

all time. I’ll see to it that nevermore

will I extend those weeds the privilege


of rooting in my yard because of my

neglect. Their spikey tops will never show

such insolence again. This final blow

will be wholesale, rightly damnify


them all. Each week I understand that I

should fill only two bags, the maximum

the garbage man will take of cumbersome

obnoxiousness. To fill more bags would try


my self-control, let my compulsion get

out of hand, allow an ire to master

me. I must confront such a disaster

to usual happiness, though I’m dead set


on full destruction of this pesky foe.

Temptation sometimes overwhelms my strict

intentions. I act like some crazy addict;

I pull the malefactors in the throe


of vengeful anger! In each sprout I see

a personal affront, a threat to life

as it should be. My grudge invests this strife

with huge predictions of catastrophe.


When these nutty bouts of weeding end,

I feel desolate. Though rage does cool,

these futile efforts make me feel a fool,

depression an unwanted dividend.


Wrenching out the big ones gives me joy,

some so big they need a two-hand pull.

A few can make a bag completely full.

I ask myself why I did not destroy

them all before they mock me now they’re tall?

I blame myself, feel that known fury flare.

Do they realize they drive me to despair?

By hiding in plain sight they want to gall


me personally, make sure they’re in my face.

I must acknowledge what I know as fact:

They’ve formed an evil, surreptitious pact

whose only goal is my entire disgrace.


On saner days I try another plan,

to pull them all from a specific plot.

The idea is to never leave a jot,

not even spare inch-high ones of the clan.


Talk about a plan designed to fail!

There’s simply a gazillion plots to weed.

It would take years for this plan to succeed

and never could it be brought up to scale.


Frustration seems to hide at every bend.

Not just frustration but a full-blown rage

when I consider all the acreage

and the obliteration I intend.


Perhaps I’m sick; I think weeds laugh at me.

They have invaded, fester in my soul;

I must tear out their roots to be more whole.

How best escape their base authority?