After Dorothea Lasky
Turnstile Charlie you are my best friend.
The rain hits the bus window.
You are who gets a call
When I need picked up, arms full of groceries
Taking on water. Charlie,
A certain type of field grass grows ripe
Upon hearing its name. You say the name sweetgrass
It neither responds nor snubs. Charlie, I have
The distinct belief you are the individual
Responsible for this non-growing
At the time of other grasses’ growing season.
You may stunt and find impartial its
Shoots. This is because of you, the attention
Paid to me at the time when I didn’t most need
It. I do not feel it necessary
To address your nickname.
At the sight of the large scythe
Just entering our field of vision,
I turned to you.
You were a granite curb, scraping me, a hubcab.
I need you to know you were callous
At that moment because you granted
No grass an escape.
At that moment
I was made into a self constantly inquiring
As to my whereabouts or the status
Of constricting boxes’ dimensions.
Where do my whereabouts lead? Have you
Followed them undetected?