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.