Brown Dead Grass
By Eleanor Keith
Brown dead grass,
Like the nasty weeds in our front yard
that sprout up and die
under the hot sun.
Piles of dry powdery dirt
cracked
by a shriveled tree
with gray leaves.
Creepy crawly spider,
it skitters up my leg—
a little spindle demon.
Wiggly rubbery dog
flopped over
panting
on burning concrete.
A stray balloon,
fleeing the sticky hands of a child
into the cloudless sky.
I laze on a splintering wood bench,
crunching on hot greasy popcorn
thinking about sweet cold rain
that is nowhere to be found.
Art by Chloe Shaw