A fence of pickets rises round a yard
of grass homogenous and vibrant green:
a rack of ivory towers, upright, hard
as phalluses provocative and clean.
It takes a village to create a lawn.
It took a truckload and a tank of gas.
A husband sowed these stakes with fading brawn,
and brainless sodded dirt with thirsty grass.

Variety’s asleep. Now symmetry
and hybridizing pride have taken hold.
A palisade of obelisks protect
an interbred toupee of turf. I see
a bored suburban garden, snail-controlled
and weed-relieved, by bland improvements wrecked.