He should
probably start
charging
admission,
the way—the steady
ongoing rush
of traffic
incoming on the John
F. Kennedy is
so close—but just
out of sight enough
to only lend
a kind of—
audible hush
that helps set
the right
context for
the grand yellow
lawn—painted
so exaggeratedly
wide with cold
streaks of
mud and such
glassy morning
mixtures
of dog piss
and dew—and spread out so
long, too, at the
foot of his
benevolently
dilapidated mansion.
