by William Skink
tiny tent webs in the grass holding
water droplets from the sprinkler
like jewels in the sun
my mower is your apocalypse
spray of the sprinkler in zone 4
makes a little rainbow in the mist
should I celebrate this?
I do not ask in the blistering heat
where the water does not fall
the grass turns brown
I live in a brightly colored college town
bursting with hopeful expectation
maybe someday condo utopia will arrive
trailer park fear disappear
and every lawn shall mist into existence
tiny rainbows
hovering above the roar
of hungry mowers munching
grass
that is amen before my ribeye steak
that is the lake of gravy
in the bowl of mashed potato
my spoon, pressing down, creates
our fate falls where we let it
goddamn it’s hot
tearing through tiny worlds in this yard
finally, the task is done, gas can empty
and tonight, after our crust cools off,
quiet work in the grass rebuilding webs
too bad that means nothing
to the mower