Lot

Here is another blackened checker square-
we laid it out to complement the grass,
to hoard away our cars, to get fair share,
to find ways to spend more money on gas.

I like to see the valley toss it off
in ever-spreading grooves for grass to grow,
to see the tar fade in a brittle slough,
to see myself inside it growing old.

I like to see us lose because I'm tired.
At twenty-three I have all that I need
to live, to work, to sleep, and to get fired.
Don't want to play this game, I want to leave.

I go east to the green well-watered plain
before the concrete burns and falls again.