A child asks "what is the grass?"
It's on the other side of the fences
And every day, the people driving past
Compare their front lawn to the baseball field.
The crack of a wooden bat that splinters
To toothpicks, from the waves that penetrate,
Echoes silently in the deaf forest.
It plants new trees in the fallen debris
From the wagon wheels parting clumsy roads.
Caravans traveling for many months
Circled up to chop wood for a campfire.
Building foundations for highways and roads
Covered up the grassy earthen pathways.
I used to walk down to the riverbank
Those summer afternoons we went swimming.
The colorado river will sometimes
Dry up before it can reach the ocean.
Bright green lawns in desert city centers
Faded to brown without irrigation.
Sport fields are made from plastic nowadays.
Laying down will cover you in rubber
Granules, like sand from going to the beach
And eating chowder, to find that the clams
Are sandy enough to crunch as you eat.
It was always nice to throw a baseball
Back and forth. My father gave me a glove
When I could throw and catch -even barely-
But I don't play that at all anymore.
His green stained knees made way to gravel scabs
But it was his flippant query from the
Entryway that captures my attention-
I think I've heard it before
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