It’s just a patch of grass, as
green as that around it, yet
yellow and black tape cordons it off.
Why? What is so different, so dangerous, so other
about this patch?
Is something buried underneath,
alive still, twitching, itching to reach out,
grab ankles, uproot itself using umbrella mushrooms?
Maybe the other grass blades
simply decided they didn’t like that little patch,
that tiny section, that huddle of earth and sprouted seed.
Perhaps they can see something I can’t,
trapped in the details, their canvas of perfection rattled
because of the few individuals declared
broken who refuse to wilt under their gazes.
Or perhaps those cordoned blades
decided to erect a barrier themselves,
electric anger spiking
at being stepped on one too many times.