Poetry: Weed, you say?

By Rob Bauer


With the legalization of both medical and adult-use (recreational) marijuana in Maine, and new shops for both markets opening, the plant sometimes known as “weed” is having a moment in the sun. This poem plays on possible confusion between that kind of “weed” and the seaweed often used to pack “bugs” (lobsters) for travel.


I needed some bugs for a wedding Soiree,

So, I called up the dock that was down by the Bay.


I said get me a crate and keep it afloat,

I’ll be over soon and it won’t be by boat.

I arrived about noon, the weather was hot

The bugs in this heat, they surely will rot.


I asked the young dockman to grab up some weed,

To keep my bugs cold, but he didn’t agree.

The weed isn’t mine, he quickly replied.

The heat of the day, his brain had it fried?


It belongs to two fishermen, and that is a fact,

At the end of the day, it helps them relax.

It was then that I saw six green healthy trees,

At the top of the dock, they swayed in the breeze.


My lesson was learned and I soon went on my way,

My bugs would be sheltered from the heat of the day

All covered in seaweed, all wet and quite cool,

Hoping the dockman would soon forget this old fool.


Rob Bauer lives in Blue Hill.

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