I fight the grass, forcing its way up
through cracks in the sidewalk and driveway
like an OCD sentry, defending the palace
from natural invasion – grass our persistent interloper.

My right thumb, the out side of the pointer,
just below the tip, begin to ache,
like I’ve been writing with a flat pencil.
The outer layer of skin, tender from friction
with each blade drawn along the same spot,
tension pushing down, trapping the thin shoot,
each pulled up and out
or else too rooted, rubbing, irritating flesh,
becoming raw.

Of course I’m too stubborn to wear gloves
I can’t feel it I argue. To grip it.
And those bulky things don’t work.
I need to pull from close down,
nearer the root,
where skin catches concrete.

I need the grass gone.
It doesn’t belong in this orderly world –
blocked, square, flat –
the shoots an unwelcome chaos.

How funny then, when it comes to church,
I should feel like the grass:
spindled, bent, and alone. Yet
still planted here on purpose
and breaking through.