Drive Thru

They must have known
when we said fish to the taco shop
megaphone ear, what we meant
was beans, because nothing
with a face has to die
in idle between hunger, menu,
order and window, a bag passed on
with That’s Life printed on it.

The sprout of a plan for winter’s
arrival pushes through edible roots.

Your mother has career advice: There is
a lot of money in the death business.

Then spring is fixing the nitrogen,
how my spouse wants to weave
sticks to a web, a trellis
for stalks to climb, for kids,
those eventual children
to hide inside. We’ll pretend
not to see them, and they
will forget the game

when a ladybug lands on a hand
and is held so as not to get crushed.