Follow the gaze of poet Roger Pfingston, as he takes in the passage of seemingly ordinary days in apparently unremarkable places, and watch the world quiet down, deepen, and ripple out.
NO GRASSYou’re a good American, he said, the man who cuts my grass, this after I tipped him a couple of dollars for his usual good job, always cleaning up after himself, although it might’ve been more for the story he told of seeing a white horse deep in a green field while on his way here from the small town where he lives, how its whiteness increased as the sky darkened, the storm that passed south of us, and then, when he paused for the water I offered, we somehow got around to his grandmother who lived here in town on 10th Street where the used bookstore is now, how, when he was a kid, people would stop and ask if they could pray in her front yard, it was that meditation-friendly, bright bushes and small trees, ground cover and two stone benches, flowers, of course, more than he thought possible in such a small space, and no grass, he said, wiping his sweaty face, no grass at all.
