The summer after we planted
Bermuda grass (for the second season),
it grew up yellow and brown,
crunching under our bare feet.
We rented a townhouse
with gravel covering the backyard,
our lawnmower sat rusting,
rainwater infiltrated the motor
until the engine would no longer
turnover; the machine rested
in our front yard and bothered our neighbor,
whose Pink Double Knockouts flourished
despite the atrocity. My husband admired
her vibrant bushes. He frequented other yards,
rustic fountains with circular drives,
embedded in Kentucky Bluegrass
and stone patios adorned with
rows of Black Knight Butterfly bushes.
I stared out of the kitchen
window at grey pebbles
and signed divorce papers with a pen,
(attached to a plastic flower).
He still enjoys wandering into yards
to appreciate gardens he will never obtain.