A once a year project is thinning the bed,
removing the century plant pup.
I start out with twelve, by the end of the year
sixty four more will develop.
The leaves have a prickly margin,
and a heavy spike, like a dart,
this isn’t a job for the thin of blood,
or for the feint of heart.
I steadied my nerves for this harrowing job,
with a large margarita, frozen.
I was scarred and bloody when found dead in the bed,
by a señorita who thought I was dozin’.