I hear a heavy truck on the street and dread that the onion grass has mechanized and is becoming aggressive.
It’s the day after Easter and I pray again that the earth will take itself back sooner and save me from yard work,
the way I remember, from when I was a kid, the End Timers praying for the bombs to fall
and justify their faith to the poor neighborhoods in town
where the couches burned when the basketball game went the wrong way.
[Daybook 2026 // Spring 4.6.26]
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Mick Parsons
Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
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