Michael Estabrook

Grass Reminds Me

of death and sneakers
and picnic baskets. The band
is setting up. The sun, cooler now,
will soon be setting down beyond
the distant trees.
The music will begin soon,
in earnest, and the people
will settle down. I take my pill
to deaden the pain in my back.
I spray some OFF!
SKINTASTIC on my arms
and the back of my neck
and over my hair.
I hate it, but it’s the lesser
of two evils. Across
the blankets and folding chairs
I see my wife.
She’s talking to some friends,
pushing her hair back
with her hand. I think
how pretty she is still, listening
to her voice reaching me in
brief, flat, unorganized
stretches. And I think, too,
how grass is the same everywhere,
really, and so are people.


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