Plastic Grass

From goal to goal, unchanging deadly green.
There are no traces of the cleated sneaks.
No weeds or tiny flowers can be seen.
No mucky shirts or shorts. But the park reeks
of ground-up tires and polyethylene.
No one gives a hoot as balls are punted
across the grass so trendy and pristine,
a lawn on which no robin’s ever hunted
beetles, spiders or worms. No sprinklers spray
droplets of H2O with rainbow stains.
The town, like plastic turf, spreads day by day
and, lacking flora, unmoved when it rains.
No mowers here. No birds disturb the burb.
A kick. A goal. A rousing roar. Superb!

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Appeared in The Oldie.