The old woman who lives next door is mad.
What’s driving her nuts
are the hungry squirrels
who live beyond her backyard gait.
They eat, and eat, and eat, the precious fruit
that grows on her trees.
They’re vexing her ease
and slowly stealing her reason.
I’ve observed her early unhinged mornings
a rattling rake
“Get out!” Get out!” as if they cared.
I have gaped through the fence and seen her eat
green and unripe
melons so rodents would starve.
In the end it was poison that did them in,
though they kicked and twitched
and put up a fight.
Her garden’s gone still and quiet.
Nowadays she’s seen on her back porch swing
on hot summer days
enjoying her yield
with a smirk on her face, spitting pits.