Back Roads II - Dustin Vado

The lawn of cacti,

the front yard of the frat house,

the bounce house for the birthday,

all parties.

I want to join the celebration

when I see smiles and beers

paying rent

to own the land in festival.

Yes, even the cacti.

When rent is due,

only the breeze sings --

a sound reminding tenants

they are another dollar poorer.

They need a Robin Hood

to draw and quarter home owners,

and make bloody masterpiece

of the rent marshalls.

My silver Honda

patrols their back road

cutting through the veins of the city

that connect streams of parties

to deltas of drunk,

and drain to oceans of noise.

I could be their Robin Hood

if my arrows flew true,

and my cooler were always stocked,

glare cold as ice

freezing smiles in their rightful place

on drought stricken lawns

showered to death.

Yes, even the lawn is past due

and pays the price with its color

that no Robin Hood can refund.

After the coolers are empty

and the grass pressed by tarpaulin,

children are dreaming of the next birthday

while parents cry for their Robin Hood

to release the party

with the hiss of a can

toward the sunset.