Blades of Grass (not a probation poem)

I sit in the car, reading Perry Mason,

thinking about something he said,

“Every man, every offense

needs to be judged on its own merit.”

 

I’m 45 minutes early,

parked near the drainage ditch.

The willows await spring leaves

and more cigarette butts.

 

This parking lot is the ugliest place

I’ve ever seen in Oregon.

I’m part of its landscape,

a landscape without people.

 

A big black pickup

pulls up next to me.

It’s blotting out the sun.

The driver gets out,

walks to the office.

Two women get out,

and walk toward

the ditch to smoke.

It’s legal there.

 

They appear Native American,

one in her 60s, one in her 30s.

The latter is beautiful,

loose black hair,

black lips,

black jeans,

black hoodie

advertising a Portland pot shop.

 

She begins crawling into the ditch.

What?

I get out. The meeting starts soon.

I bring along Perry.

Walt is history.

 

“What’s going on down there,” I ask.

I move to inspect.

I smell cigarette smoke.

I look down.

She’s kneeling near the water,

taking closeups with her phone,

but not of herself.

 

She looks up at me.

“It’s so beautiful, the green,

the moss, the grass, the blades of grass.”

I mention the willows without leaves,

thin cylinders of various greens.

“Yes, I saw them,” she said.

She emerges from the ditch, smoking.

“Thank you,” I say,

“for finding beauty.”

She smiles and smokes.

“I like to look for it,” she says.

 

I walk into the office,

pull out Perry,

begin to read.

No probation office poem today.