Mushrooms

 

On my lawn the mushrooms grow, pale globes, large and beautiful among the green.  And on Sundays, the white church next door releases its children from the confines of parents and pews.  They tear the heads off, leaving shreds across the grass, stalks trampled.

All the while the family gathers on the steps to smile and bask in holy setting, society, and friends.  They have gotten out of the habit of rooting out mushrooms, leaving that for their children.

I think about sitting out on my porch and defending my mushrooms.  Putting on my best degenerate persona and popping a beer to growl, bearded and drunken down at them.  But who’s ever up at that hour.

Besides, they aren’t really my fungus.  They just grow where the alley dogs go.  And the more the children tear them, the wider the spoors spread.  Each week there are more mushrooms.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.

 

IMG_1524

Advertisements

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: