Green

This poem by Gabriel Spera appeared in Issue 2 of The Lakeshore Review.

At last, only cemeteries and golf courses
were allowed to water lawns, but even that proved
unsustainable. So they sent their lobbyists,
rival lovers romancing the same senators

who simply couldn’t choose between death
and recreation. Money being the mother
of invention, they opted to merge and wondered
why nobody thought of it sooner, Sunday

being holy to them both and both focused
on holes in the ground. Stones laid flat
for easy mowing, each visit was like
a pilgrimage to a star on the Walk of Fame,

and retrieving a sunk put became an act
of genuflection. The sod, for a time, remained
vibrant and lush, dendritic roots and leaves
connecting both the damned and the dead.