The spring lamb's turned feral, violent. Won't be sheered.

I ask, What'd you learn today? He bares his teeth:

Grr! Spells it out GEE ARR ARR. Titters bitterly

as the tulips jab through cool soil and again

when the frost returns to shrivel their petals. Always cheering

for ice jams, he can't help but want every covered bridge

to spin half-submerged downriver into the next, a domino-

effect that'll push the province further into the red, that'll end

the seasonal migration of travellers rubbernecking maritime

kitsch with a fervour he just doesn't get. His favourite colour

is usually orange, sometimes black. But he likes anything

that clashes: plaid and stripes, Samoan-punk with bagpipes.

Soon he buzzes a '90s fade. Buzzes FUCK OFF!

on the side of his bullet head. Tries to hide his grin

when geriatrics in the third-best mall in town are shocked.

Takes to wearing a leather jacket, carrying a switchblade.

But it's all performance; he bawls most days.

Can see the fences being built around him.

Is sure the sun rising earlier each morning

has a common-sense plan that he can't say no to.

​