All In The Name Of

The artillery moan
of a gas-drunk   Ditch Witch
rents this peaceful afternoon
as muscled men set it loose
upon my restless neighbor’s
green, complacent yard.
They take turns chewing up the ground,
carving out a magazine walkway,
lining the gash with shale.
And the sod that grew so willingly
sits balled-up in a dumpster,
growing stale.

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