The sun shines after every thunderstorm. My earth should be cracking from drought. Where was my thunderstorm? I felt the sprinkle of rain, but the downpour evaded me. The last one I saw is now months removed and inhabiting my car radio. I am the lush green front lawn in the middle of endless summer sun. I am your neighbor breaking water rations. My property is green, kept, and blooming with flowers, too selfish to lack what another could enjoy.
Outsiders looking in don’t admire. The reminder just hurts and rips at the edge of the permanent scab you’re scratching at as you picture the dry brown dirt and yellow peach fuzz grass you call home. I smile and wave as you pass. What a good person. With a childlike intent, I’ll leave my emerald grasses for barren lawns surrounding. My aid is a tin watering can to nourish forty acres. A patch of green grass one foot around is all I have to show for hours of time. I walk home to my fresh flowers and green grass.
What a helper. What a pal. Unintentionally, I am the perpetual smiling jerk.
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