would be the first to turn
into one of those

no-good pests, eating up
the neighborhood

like a june bug, sinking
his teeth into anything

with a pulse.
last night, i found

him in the garden,
tongue lolling

from his mouth,
flesh dangling

from his incisors,
blood dripping

on my begonias.

who’d have thought
a pair of gardening shears

would slice so smooth
through your grandpa’s

forehead.