Alofa Bread makes a new yard.
Alofa Bread sliced through the kitchen like toast
ousted from toaster slots and stood by the back door,
hands on hips, eyes wide, determination dripping like
olive oil from a pan. “I am tired,” Alofa lowed,
“I can no longer keep my lawn--I give up, for
I am as stale as an undertaker’s breath.”
Alofa stomped her heel; “My yard is funky railroad,
interment of old Kentucky grass, an easement for the
Eliminators (those Hell’s Angels wannabes), a flat
verdant, no longer crisp with snap, but bent like
sprain and limp like desiccated philodendron."
Alofa rolled her eyes, then beamed like butter on corn.
“Now I decide, for I am Bread, and lo, this millstone
that is yard will now be nil, and I declare it will be
stone; I’ll bury grass forever more, and let the
Lawn-Boy and weed-whacker idle like a valley
fog.” Resolved, Alofa left for Lowe’s...
...and there Alofa spotted stone bagged high on racks
south of wide rakes and rows of bulbs and electrical.
So, I am Bread yet I need stone, Alofa thought
as she strode forth with shopping cart (that red-
wheeled help), as damaged wheel made flop
each turn and shook a lot--Alofa felt.
Alofa hefted stone of lime, thick plastic wrapped,
white dust a smear on some of Bread, then huffed
and strained like coil springs compressed by logs.
But mass in cart, and countenance a win like mate
in chess, she wheeled with wobble to the end where
checkout light assigned her path, and Alofa swiped
Discover in slot, (atilt with corded pen there placed),
tapped cash back no, then signed her name.
Backbreaking bags of stone once sought, Bread balanced
each upon the Honda’s robust edge, then dragged them
to the yard and cooed as winds from lake blew forth.
“Oh stone, I love you! Goodbye old friend, farewell
to green, the journey-work of stars. Yet stone is
journey-work as well; all atoms ancient, an
authorship of cosmic quill."
Alofa lounged in her lanai, sipped lemonade
and looked with pride at her new yard.