Wild Grasses

a poem by Roger B Rueda

All of eight, I’d pull up wild grasses

like our neighbour’s gay boarder

removing

his moustache with a straight,

firm pull with tweezers,

or our neighbour

shaving her leg hairs off.

When I went for a walk

with my grandmother, Nanay,

I’d nip the shoots

of wild grasses along the road.

I’d smile to think

how useless they were.

When Nanay called my name,

I'd jump to my feet

and lobe the shoots

onto the sky.

It'd send the birds flying away,

fazing them.

Now I wag my head sorrowfully.