Lake Suburbia - Andrew Hanson

Laying down
my water bottle on zebra mussels
shells, dried from drought inducing sunshine;
the lake line has receded every day.
It may be December: the air crisp
Refreshing the lungs, but dark cloths get hot when one sits too long.
 
Bending down
Knotted back clicking, as I touch
The lake, Waterford crystal clear
Still peaceful solitude amongst the construction
A constellation of frenzied labor
That quarrels with rural life.
Another spat at the gas station a stone’s throw away.
 
Stripping pastures
To strip malls and bermuda lawns,
The fuel to economic growth in the region,
Rejecting what brought old folks here.
 
I pick up a rock, not painted or stripped,
Not decent building material
Regardless of what the nearby quarry blast says.
This will be my pet, the only adoptable companion
That forlorn kids can afford.
This rock is flat, smooth, and gray, with a flick its away-
Skip, skap, splat, and another forty-acre plat splits two times in one business day.
 
Crows call at you to question,
If sometime soon this lake will say,
“Why did you hollow me out, to make a place for kids to play?”