skin

yesterday I looked again at
the tangled tomato vine that
raccoons raid in their midnight chat

its fake spines offer no defense
against those greedy teeth, and hence
I must abandon all pretense
and don my grandpa’s hunters hat

it seems extreme, I know, to think
death is just
                 instead of chain-link
fence or deterrence leaving stink
but our tradition is combat

after all, the vermin leave bits
of red and orange skin, their mitts
in prints that test my patience wits:
dawn tomato on my doormat

my grandpa would shoot them with a
shotgun armed with salt that would spray
across garden and lawn and say
each time he’d shaved two ears, then spat

I channel him, I think, and grab
the pistol from its bedside cab-
inet to end the nightly confab
fresh home defense that gramps begat—

     and I the good son, thieves without,
     will stand my ground ‘gainst all who doubt
     my faith or beasts will turn this out
     this is no age for diplomat

wow, um, I have to admit that
I scared myself with tit for tat
inflated words, “jehosaphat”
let this oath be my caveat.