Poppy’s reading glasses were pink before pink was cool.
They often sat on his head instead of on his broken nose.
Look, it’s broken! No cartilage! As he smeared it sideways.
Left, right, right back to left. Mine murmured “no”,
refused to roll.
Sun glinted the glasses,
smiled.
Blue eyes became huge
behind the pink glasses.
I tried them, dizzy,
dancing while magnified.
Poppy protected peonies,
rooted roses, mixed mulch,
recorded his gras mixtures:
Zoysia, Fine Fescue, St. Augustine.
My eyes rolled as he extolled,
but I do remember the sun shining.
I’m still running across his lawn.
Softest blades ever, like butter,
greenest grass living large in
a tiny world of fertilizers,
twiddled turf formulas.
Published in The Blue Mountain Review, September 2021
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