Criss-crossing

A child has marked our yellow house with
a crayon blue hashtag by the front door.
Its wavy lines criss-cross, and underneath
the rosemary bush sprawls recklessly.

Those piney fumes criss-cross in the air.
That black snake is probably still out the back,
criss-crossing everyone else foolish enough
to hang twilight washing, as dogs
bark soundwaves that crash against fences.

And grrrrr, the suburban dog collective
has requisitioned a compass entry point, again.
Swinging out from the human on their leashes:
you can see the brown X-marks-the-Spots on the lawn,
that bit east of letterbox on the map.

Let’s get these criss-crossings safe and secure, please.
Could that blue hashtag flash for oncomings?
The rosemary remind us when to go?
(Will the snake tempt me to dump the load, run?)
Dog turds are tricky.
But they show, don’t they,
that sometimes the best thing
is just to pick your grassy way through.

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