It’s the new skinny-dipping
in the downtown fountain.
On high school double dares
these goddamn kids leave
their condoms and panties
in the grass and leaf litter,
to clog my mower blades on
Monday mornings in Babyland.
Sweaty practice sessions for
intentional procreation
among the stillborn and the sickborn
and the preemies who failed,
while stone angels pray down
beatifically.
The symptoms of decrepitude gouge
and prick, but lawn-mower deafness
has made more space for reflection—
and I’m beginning to think a little softer
on these goddamn kids.
Their cemetery fucking
now seems all part of the mix:
seeding and dying,
loving and grieving
and groundskeeping.
