I'm sick of them,
these wreaths —
brown, desiccated,
with forlorn red bows
they linger on doors and windows
in the strengthening sun.
There must be fifty in my neighborhood alone.
It's almost Easter.
They have to go.
Green and fresh, in dark December
they gladdened the heart
but it's long past time to
recycle, bury or burn.
I fantasize about roaming the streets
picking off wreaths with
silent rubber bullets.
I should get a medal from the mayor.
The Wreath People puzzle me —
they live among us, but why?
Is it laziness, inertia, an arcane ritual,
or do the dead wreaths
mark their houses for the mother ship?

From Thank Your Lucky Stars ((Moon Pie Press, 2011).
Used with the author's permission.