Like rattlesnakes, we wait, coiled on the grass.
People preen, eat, kiss, and walk despite so much grass.
Nothing invites touch like a woman’s bare back
Gently creased from reclining on bluegrass.
We are in a dream of the seventies.
It will be our turn tonight, with or without grass.
Flamenco on the seats, anyone? Men flailing
with sideburns? Bad flashbacks, or is it just grass?
Sun on the edge of cloud, toy plane flying:
Shafts of rain and light burn across the grass.
This night will end in silence. But what does
departure mean to those lying, listening, on the grass?
Published in Perigee (online), 2004
©Beth Partin 2004. All rights reserved.
