Another Garden Poem

I open an book my old father just gave me
to find another fucking garden poem,
about coreopsis and lantana and black-eyed susans,
and though these are all fine poetic names
I am consumed by a desire to shove
the flowers themselves up the poet's fundament,
to see all of them turn into poison sumac
as she caresses them -- this time the poet
is a she -- to have the jonquil turn into
an enormous Venus flytrap and sloppily 
devour her, this poet who has written the 40,000th
poem this year about flowers, and her fucking
ancestors, and little intimations of Jesus
probably -- I can't read it to the end -- and if
Wordsworth were here he'd drop a decorative
concrete fucking garden angel on her skull, 
because she has forced me to become passive-
aggressive, which I have never been before,
and my father who gave me the book is outside
sweating like a Brazilian ironworker
trying to plant the butterfly bush I gave him
for his birthday, which he shouldn't be doing
because of his 70-year-old heart, but I am going to 
let him do it, I'm just so fucking pissed at everybody.