groundhog fever

twenty bucks for a groundhog trapped,

thirty, if skinned.

i ride my bicycle past the green house over gravel,

sand, and thursday's percolated rain,

to check my trap of chickweed and chard:

green, yellow, pink stalks of deceit.

there's no sign of interest, only fresh claw

marks from the mound of earth by

the thin birch tree, by the creek, below the garden.

twenty bucks would buy me new toothpaste,

vanilla ice cream, two kiwis.

thirty, goodness knows.

every day i've waved and greeted the groundhogs.

these hands that hello now are

setting traps,

rearranging temptation.