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.

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