Planted

I lay on the grass when I'm at a park
Generally shunning shoddy benches
Which wait, shivering in their bright green paint,
On concrete slabs, within their rain-free prisons
For someone else to love them.
I don't care what I'm laying upon
Or how long ago the dogs have passed by.

What unearthly smells
May be clinging to the back of my shirt
Upon rising are the least of my concerns.
What matters is the touch of green
Tickling the back of my neck
And the sun warming my innards
Like a good grilled cheese sandwich
In these languid late summer days.