On The Grass Tracks

Gentlemen and Lady start your engines.
No one sings the anthem but
laps begin.

Green bluegrass flags the start.

Most track back and forth,
gnawing tops off the fescue,
relentlessly reducing the blades

that never quite make it to seed.

Some rebel and chop diagonally,
one mower etches his “X.”
The old hippy, who tried a crop circle,

got alienated for his artistry.

She, with the degree in design,
opts for the Fibonacchi spiral but,
the turn ratio on her Toro

sculpts only fractured fractals.

When the roaring machines are silenced
on Saturday afternoon, the tree-hugger
stands raking the victims of his

motorless, non-mulching, rotary mower,

contemplating,
with each scratch of the tines,
eco systems, the fall of lawns,
the rise of sustainability.

Highway Miles

Always happiest on the highways,
from the age of sixteen until now,
dotted lines provided clear boundaries,
solid white warned caution to the right,
for yellow, be advised, don’t go there.
Sweet pavement rolls on to forever.
Forever is coming so quickly,
but don’t be too sure this trip’s over.
I have traveled, mostly, highway miles.