The Gardener


I have a beanstalk seed.
It is hidden in my pocket.
To be honest, it’s not really hidden
because beanstalk seeds are quite large
(like five of them combined
are the size of a starving cow)
and my pants are kind of bulging.
I’m getting funny looks but I don’t mind
because I’m going to be a giant killer.

My friends don’t believe that I can defeat the behemoth;
they are trying to convince me instead to hide the legume under a princess’ mattress to ask her hand in marriage.
I think that my smiling face may be the last thing
a sleep-deprived future queen
wants to see first thing in the morning.

Besides, I’ve been training for the giant-killing all week.
I might be more fit than a lion,
mostly because of my opposable thumbs;
just yesterday, I hefted an axe,
which isn’t a verb to take lightly.
I can shout “fe, fi, fo, fum,” more convincingly
than any monster impersonator and
I have lifted free weights at least four
(or two)
times this week
to simulate grabbing a golden goose.

To get into the mind of the Giant,
I have eaten more bones than is doctor recommended.
They’re tiny ones, mind you, from little critters
like fish or chickens, but when I tried
to grind them into bread, my blender broke.
Maybe they were too high in calcium
because the hatchlings listened
to their mothers when told to
drink their milk.

I think I’ll even eat a meal before
I kill the owner of the golden harp
because I no longer live with my mother
who would send me to sleep without dinner.
When my friends ask for proof the the bean is magic,
I’ll just play them some classical music
courtesy of the ingot instrumentalist that I will win.

The only tricky part of the operation could be
keeping the seed happy until it takes root;
but there is even a spot on my roof
to give birth to the coming beanstalk
(because my apartment doesn’t
come with a backyard or garden
for that would be an extra arm and leg a month
and I can only spare so many limbs)

I have a magic seed in my pocket
and I can’t wait until the morning
when it becomes a bone-fide green stalk,
reaching high into the clouds.

As I proudly pat a hand to my
leg to feel the priceless piece
I traded for a hunk of meat,
the magic berry pops in my pants,
which suddenly look like I’m four years old again
and just had an accident on my first day of kindergarten.

I will have to kill the Giant some other time.

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