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