Dirt

The dark loam pours out of the box
onto clumps of dirt packed close
by winter’s chill and weight of snow
and ash from the wood stove:
rich, life-giving soil from
vegetable parings and apple cores,
eggshells and grapefruit rinds,
coffee grounds and tea bags;
nothing is wasted.
Scrapings from dinner plates,
tips of beans and celery leaves,
corn cobs and avocado shells
all thrown in together
to rot, metamorphosing
in that polyvinyl cocoon
into the black earth
that cradles the new year’s crop.
Parsley stems and tomato cores return
to the soil that grew them;
tough stalks of basil nourish
next summer’s pesto;
and all this flows onto my spade
and I spread it and bury it
and crumble the clods of clay-packed dirt
which, after years of mingling
with spring’s spoils from winter’s waste,
is still hard and rebellious
under my shovel and rake.
A clang of metal on limestone and
shale brought up by winter heaving;
these will not decompose.
They will not become soil
in my lifetime.

Guinea Pig

Guinea pigs are the animals of choice
for elementary-school classroom pets;
they live extremely boring lives
and are amazingly content to do so.
Provided with enough food,
They will eat till they burst.
Their cages smell, no matter
how often they are cleaned.

My best friend had a guinea pig.
It was black as coal
and when it died
it was cold as coal.
My girlfriend’s mother asked me,
me, an innocent bystander
unimplicated in the rodent’s demise,
to dispose of the remains.

Why couldn’t she do it?
I still don’t know.
Even my girlfriend was uninformed
of the fate of this pet.
Perhaps it slept, lying as it did
on its side in its cage,
unmoving, unmoved;
and I wrapped it in newspaper like a fish from the market
and deposited it without ceremony in the can
holding next week’s garbage pickup.

I still harbour resentment
at this manipulation of my youthful devotion,
at my friend’s mother’s betrayal,
at the disposal of this lifeless corpse
belonging to something she once loved.