weeds are somebody’s kids
babies a mother left
in sidewalk cracks
or lost in the wind
to wake up in fields and flowerbeds
or slipped her grip in rain
and washed away out of sight
while here I am
chopping them off at the knees
filling a bucket with
limp and dying bodies
without any ear
for their fatal screams
nor the terrible thought
that I’m killing orphans
but that today
murder is such a chore