Poem in Need of Eighty Acres

Metaphysical in my lawn chair,

with the lawn mowed and the whole afternoon

to drink beer, I notice how

my neighbor’s yard

compares. Nothing personal,

but I wonder if they’ll ever get started.

Each day at sundown, they stand on their deck and point,

as if alarmed by something invisible to me.

Evening silvers their faces like foil.

Meanwhile, their lawn declares victory.

Dandelions flower and cloud, big as seagulls.

Acolyte to the living barbecue, I scrape the grill

and speculate further…

I think there’s an experiment here in my neighborhood.

I think these people may be androids

that don’t work right.