A child asks, what is the grass?
Thinking to myself, I ask "what is it,"
although I know I should know.
"Food perhaps," or maybe it was more.
Maybe it's a sign of life in the ground
or hair for the floor. "What is it,"
I asked myself, and so did the girl,
as she pet the small green slivers
in her hand with a look of bewilderment.
"Is it a present?" She asked angelically,
staring at my facade of confusion which
was facing what I had known a just
a softer pavement. "Maybe," I started
then finished explaining "If your yard is patchy,"
something the neighbors often hated.
Similar to how I hate the neighbor boy.
He's quite mean.
He pushed me down once, in this very grass.
And as I run my palms over any cow feed
it takes me down, flat on my ass to the day
I feel so hard and nearly broke my coccyx,
A word I just learned yesterday,
when I said I had a tail.
Like those of dog, the ones that wag
a lot more as they approach the grassy park.
Perhaps it's a toy of sorts, one I forgot how to use.
I could take piles and handful and make a cap
to throw as high as I could like the day
I graduated in my lush football field.
Maybe grass means freedom, a comfortable illusion to hold.
But I must stop this daydreaming, my tailbone hurts.
"So I thought about what it is more," I let the child know.
"It was lava at your age,
pavement as I grew,
now it's something familiar
like me to you.
The grass is a home, or a meal
for some the grass is an arena of sorts
but really it's whatever you choose,
whatever you need it to be."
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