String lights illume
the gouged wounds, the hallways
julienne like vegetables, the couch
bruised from beatings, the bread loaf
slit, armoire hit with ruby stripes, the cupboards
knocked in with unhinged doors hanging –
Who hears? What cry? The neighbors are all with
their fruit filled mason jars, their hot tubs,
their cars, cozy backyard campfires,
in bedrooms, at dining tables, in La-
Z-Boy chairs, keeping in their business, reclining
in their designer homesteads –
There are no predators here.
A wrongdoer could not
pitch a tent on these lawns,
everyone is good
in this neighborhood, the sheriff
lives nearby, everyone knows
everybody. Hey everybody!
there are no tigers hiding in the long grass here,
no hyenas laughing up these sidewalks,
no wolves lurking on this swell day
where the grass is cut short,
the wine is delivered,
the above ground pools shine;
yes, it is certain, that each house
with the lights on,
each man and woman and child
3 thoughts on “The Long Grass”
I loved the haunting quality in this. Did you intend it?
I did! “Haunting” is a good word to describe the piece, as I was going for sensations and thoughts that are unsettling and/or disquieting. Glad you liked it!
Yeah. I mostly like poems that feel like paintings… this one was perfect that way.