Every year about June
his house needs a haircut:
Boston Ivy, which covers
two sides of old red brick,
starts to encroach on roof,
making eaves disappear
more or less the way ears
hide in an unshorn head.
For years he had dragged
the old aluminum ladder
out of its hidey hole
and leaned its extended
length up into the realm
of Jack’s beanstalk’s top
in the clouds while his wife
stood anxiously ready to catch
any falling objects: leaves,
bits of vine, or him, as they
fell to earth. Vine tonsorialism
not being strongly developed skill
on his side of the family,
they decided, after his
threescore and tenth
birthday, the aquire
a shiny new hi tech
ladder that practically
cuts vines and harvests
golden eggs and harps
on its own. So if you see
a wonderfully shorn
red brick home on your
way to the palace . . . .
