The Short Grass by A. H. Housley

faded

in the fertile cracks,

life danced freely, holding its bloated belly

in defiance to the yellow moon above

“you’re awful and ignorant.”

“tell me something new.”

under the hiss of neon lamps,

graffiti women sell their worn-out wares

attack with lazy offhanded swagger

here

in between the cracks,

life carries on with quiet indifference

never struggles or rushes to push

“it’s the same news again.”

“worthless information is never in short supply.”

clumsily, the universe hurls vulgarities

in car crashes, alcoholism, brutal untidy love

never ever at a loss for words

there

inside the narrow cracks,

life annoyingly raises its bull-necked head

to obscure slippery intentions

“i get the impression that you don’t care.”

“i’m still here.”

soothsayers, wanderers and faith healers wait

like tigers asleep in the cool evening shade

their twisted tongues ready to pounce

offering platitudes and promises of days

yet imagined

neglected

in the hollow cracks

the fallows of summer are trampled

“shall we mingle inside the particles of emptiness?”

“it sounds oh so very mystical but I have laundry to do.”

so much time wasted

the dead stay dead

songbirds sing

the living lurch forward

while the short grass grows,

between unforgiving, unworthy toes.

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A. H. Housley is a writer from Atlanta. His debut novel Waiting Impatiently, is set for a July 2021 release. You can find him on Twitter @andrewhhousley or at www.ahh-ahh.com.