Shuffling past mumbling
lawnmowers—the smell
of freshcut grass drifting
thick on humid wind
floods my nose and
smears me out in
space and time to
every lazy lawn I've sat on—
brushing spiny
blades, I'm itchy,
blushing water-
melon red for picnics
parties concerts backyard
football fireworks—all
while walking straight
ahead but plainly lost
in the best of all possible
worlds—fertilized as such
by the actual mulch
of nothing much.
