The Tenant

The neighbors pay a man in a white truck

to spray the life out of the driveway dirt.

I’m walking home with a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips,

trying to keep my head from doing that thing where it hurts.

By the gate, the asphalt’s gray lip is torn.

A yellow head is shoving through the grit.

It looks like water hardened into a green horn,

refusing to give up even a single bit.

I’m the only one with a yard that’s gone to seed.

A messy tenant in a zip code of cut grass.

I stand by the crack and feel the urgent need

to hide the stem before the neighbors pass.