Saturday, September 29, 2007


I want to count each blade of grass and clover growing on this lawn because it will soon be gone, covered with concrete, not to be a street, but just another parking lot where cars deposit overflowing oil and axle grease and trucks fart fumes into the air and boozers who just don't care with no respect toss empty beer cans everywhere.

Swarthy men with jet black skin have breakfast before they begin. Coffee cups, half filled or spilled, beer cans, unwashed, squashed, bent, discarded out of shape, morning papers, left unread, crusts of bread, pools of piss, some of that and more of this.

Trucks of fresh cement will pour their contents on Kentucky Blue and lucky four leaf clovers, just a few, mixed with bugs and worms and other squirmy things, gasping for air, buried there without a prayer.

Where once was grass where children played, having fun, running, falling down, there'll be discarded butts and ashes, crashes, scattered shards of broken glass, rusting Chevies, Fords and foreign cars and hordes of drivers and connivers with angry faces declaring war over parking spaces.


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