In my small backyard,
the grass soaks up the water,
but brown spots remain.

A man, a billboard,
two air conditioning units,
all strewn by the tracks.

Early morning hours,
rife with dew and diffused light,
pass all too quickly.

These damn distractions,
countless links on which to click –
is that a squirrel?

Crowded city streets,
jackhammer percussion – boom!
Cover your dang ears.

Four plastic lawn chairs,
an easy purchase in June,
but not in August.

The propane is gone.
Bust out the George Foreman Grill
if you want burgers.

Her faded t-shirt
celebrates faded culture
without irony.

This man, this…Dow Jones.
He gives less than a small damn
about you and me.

Immaturity
is not wasted on the young,
not by a long shot.