Four Seasons on the Bus: Spring
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.
[from Maunder, 2019, published by, and available for purchase at, Palimpsest Press.]