My back is so sore
from killing bromeliads
this weekend.
I take my morning walk
and as the police car drives by
I’m sure the cop wonders
where this man
made of broken plastic paint buckets
is going.
I’d been wanting to cut them
for a long time
for the crime of growing
out of their designated space
and killing the grass.
But she denied me.
Yet when painters were coming
for the exterior of the house
she worried for their legs
being cut on the serrated edges
of this devil desert plant.
Maybe I should quit
my job
and go be
a painter.