Municipal Portion

I sprint to adjust the lawn watering
dervish device, illegal these many drought months
and then the day before a downpour,
I catch the outermost drops
on my satisfied boots.

There's a mortgage on
each blade of grass,
a second on the fence vines.
Our shade oak of righteousness
drinks in its municipal portion,
careful to stretch toward God
in a wireless sky.

The younger maple is spitting
a worrisome leaf curl,
the years old hurricane break
nearly exposed. Easy to see
not yet competing canopies
will make a front yard marriage
of trees, proud Papa, ever ready
at the rake.