The suburbs smell like wet grass and death

The stupid fucking sprinkler.
It went all summer. It was an alarm
clock, it was death.
It was hearing a baby cry on an aeroplane.

Everyone envied his lawn
type of grass with those lines
running up and down in neat order. Sometimes
she’d catch him with kitchen scissors
trimming the edges right
up to the pavement.

He would sit on his deck
chair. Glasses on, hair
barley remaining. Tanned
that awful shade of orange.
Sixteen rows of houses positioned
like teeth post-braces, it was insufferable life
without a snaggletooth poking through in conversation.

He sat up, looked straight
at her and began to speak
“Girl, this is what life’s all about eh?”
“It is?” She asked.
“This is it. This is all.” He deepened
his body into the chair.
She looked over and ached.
The grass was green, but the dog
was dead.