Poem Stays in One Place

Plants asparagus and
other notions starting
with a . . . pauses
to consider History standing
on the esker crest, surveying,
with a claxon or cowbell
and emblazoned lapels.

History ignores Poem.

Poem goes back to his
work placing himself
now the soil to his knees
prying his thighs apart.

There is something effusive
about roots, dangerous.

Culture comes and sniffs
his ears, decides not
to mark territory, trots
off in search of fresher meat.

Critics smell blood,
circle.

The topsoil now
spills into Poem’s mouth,
a sweet taste, triumph:
he is here.