My father, long retired and recently afraid
of becoming irrelevant, has become a pest.
A master gardener, himself, he has volunteered
to teach the Wampanoag children of Cape Cod
how to grow vegetables the way 80 year old white men do -
by stabbing cold metal hand shovels into the sandy soil
and throwing dry seeds in the gaping wounds.
The Wampanoag women of Cape Cod
prefer their traditional methods.
The warm heels of their feet create the needed homes
for the pregnant seeds.
Dad visits their community garden
unannounced, uninvited, and unaware
he may be perceived as a great white heron in a floppy hat
attempting to poach fish from their pond.
The tortured history here would recommend
a gentler approach, but he is forever
surprised by the frosty welcome.
He suspects they want his money more than his help.
His plans for Thanksgiving, my sister and I think,
are bound to make matters worse.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 