The grass is tall enough to ride the wind
without an adult. Big problems hide there,
taking their shifts at the invisible factory
where the corn is processed. Today to work
I am wearing a garland of cinnamon flowers.
Something touches my neck and it is like
ornament becoming essence, a Little Tree
air freshener hung on a Douglas fir, but I’m
not proud enough or that tall or I’ve gained
too much weight that isn’t just moral,
I feel ashamed because I can see it, the air
sauntering through & with the feather reeds
at the tips of the switchgrass, don’t quit
your day job, a wad of gum in a satin glove.