Ronald Moran

Wild Goose Poetry Review, No 34, Spring 2018

for D B

In the year of mole mounds on my
patch of arthritic dirt, effete grass
and assorted twigs leftover from
a storm forecasters said would
render us useless in our aging
subdivision, and which, when it hit,

did not even upset a healthy branch
of the robust parade of our pin oaks,
I removed my tall, vigorous pin oak,
whose regal shadow bullied all
efforts of my good neighbor to grow
anything––grass, flowers, bushes––

to help him plant and nourish what
he wanted to in his yard, my act
officially disapproved by a select
committee in our neighborhood
vested with authority to permit/deny
the sad lot of us to change anything.


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