Grouchy with over-fertile spring
and the breakdown of both machines
I lament the Age of the American Lawn

What is this collective obsession 
with postcard front-yards?

Let dandelions flourish, let old men
laze about reading and yawning to the end,

let the range of nature be not in single blades
but in whole fields of wildest green.

Bring in goats or wild horses from the steppes,
let feral pigs snout up the roots of fescue,

for despite what’s printed on some courthouse deed
this weedy land will never be my rightful claim