Sunset over Shit Lawn

by G. Tod Slone

The mob inside pushed me outside—
the Hispanics wheeling their carts
bellowing in Spanish as if in Mexico.
A lawn of wrappers and shit lay before me,
where I sit on a bench seat in front of
Walmart in Salem, New Hampshire,
soaking in the last sun rays of the day.
Obese people waddle around the lot
with backwoods air and voices.
A large six-foot long snow and ice turd,
blackened with crap and wrappers,
lies to the right of me, winter’s end
surrounded by melt water, butts, straws,
plastic pieces, bubblegum hockers,
papers, and even a few pinecones.
When you’re my age, if you don’t
have a crew cut and wear a suit
they inevitably say, hey you look like
that guy in Back to the Future.
The sun shoots at me horizontally,
very pleasant warmth and light,
straight over the roof of Wendy’s
on to this stretch of shit lawn.
Cars, cars, I wonder if these people
even contemplate the universe.
Behind me is shit woods also strewn
with wrappers, plastic strawers, boxes,
bags, empty bottles, and crushed cans.
J arrives wheeling a basket full of stuff,
says she’s going to have the girls over,
so bought all kinds of nuts and shit.