Lawns

Over blankets and sex,
over money, the dog and goldfish,
my wife and I are at war.
We’re at war and the world’s at war,
three of my neighbors angry
at the local church, making signs,
a high school classmate at war
with the Feds, his brain
a brilliant purple mass of PCP.
Every day I’m more like a beached
whale waiting for someone
to pull out his fishing knife and open me up.
We sometimes sleep
in separate beds. We share
the same parking strip, the same lawn.
We watch someone else’s child
running toward the street.