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