Sand Hill

My empty school down the road
shimmered in the heat waves,
window-glare filtered through grass
not worth bothering to cut.

It won't be long before we're gone,
so let the grass weave between the split rails,
decorate the driveway canyons,
and tickle at our wrists.

Let it hide us and the cracked vinyl siding,
bleached with RoundUp and sun,
from the eyes of Mr. Bass Pro Shop
and his wife Susan.

Maybe the grass will grow so high
when I drive by twelve years later
I won't recognize the fresh carpet
that surrounds the new rose beds.

Only "Sand Hill School Road" at the corner
and the glimmer of my elementary school
against the orange summer sunset will assure me
that I ever lived here at all.