Long past its prime,
This corroded
Iron barrel cut length-
Wise in half, whose
Bottom was once
Covered under a light
Shovelful of topsoil,
And over which
A bed of hot char-
Coals crackled,
Searing dandy cuts
Of tender, grass-fed beef
Whenever the occasion
To surfeit called for it,
Now sprouts
A generous helping
Of organic dandelions—
But do not fret, friends
For old times’ sake,
Let’s pretend we’re eating
Our blooming hearts out.
