SAFE LAWN Rubber-belted trash guy           treading on the lawn, Madame’s perfect petals stepped on, abused.                                         – Is that the way it goes?                                  – She says so.                                     She says it goes.                               – She tells him to go?                     – Ho, hey! Has he trespassed? We’d like if she said so, good           high-collared mistress of the tissue-paper           home.                     – Steady yourself. Don’t criticize her.                        She’s only being good.                        She’s pacifying the news today.                               The tickertape’s got margins                               that she knows to hate to blur.           She’s got issues with galoshes and tents           and the thermostat – never with           little doggie’s graves.                               (Dance the circles.                                Mesh: a garden.                                Dog knows, Madame knows,                                how to keep things pretty.)           Grave old man with                     his mustard and his                     helmets.                     Tea cakes don’t go with                     Grouchy McMadame-son.           – Son? Not for her. Too              rubbery for that. Galosh squeaks.              She says so. Written in 2006.