There’s nothing greener than grass except the untended weeds, bristling, poking in a brittle way at the world around their envy. Except nothing’s green that’s not painted or plastic. It won’t rain. The grass is on edge. There’s no greed like the rooted seeds’ for water. I walk guarded among them like one accused. Like each passing day, the blades at my feet keep, each one, a piece of me as I pass through them. A souvenir, a smashed penny to lose too soon after ruining. I remember it costs 50 cents to smash a penny, two quarters and a penny in a push slot spread oval thin and embossed in a glass case with gears and noise, and the elongated coin still hot when it hit your hand so you knew where the 50 cents went. Memory is a place of plenty, where you could find a penny, and unspent wishes, before it hurt to walk barefoot through the drought hardened yard daydreaming of memories dear enough to press into a shiny new penny, to value more tenderly than literally.