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Except for the Dandelion

There was a time when me & Roberto over coffee weighed the unsolvable and impossible to define, impossible even to express, for two as green, as un-grown, as he and I.

What to do with the dandelion in the yard, for example, mow it down or let it thrive, that stood there a sentry-weed, intransigent yellow May to September, mowed around until its head exploded one busy, windy day.

Could it have been “beauty without a purpose” — ? And what was beauty, what was purpose?

These things we pondered, coffee after coffee, until first frost when he bailed for good and I followed the argument that led to you.

Here is the rule behind everything since: the trash bins inevitably go back into the garage, and the newspaper lands inevitably on the stoop; the kettle is nothing if not black, and me & Roberto will murder the world, he and I.