The blades of grass
are just the right height.
The lawn is mowed twice
a week rain or shine
by a landscaping
company.
Nothing is out of place.
The yard reflects the
perfection of the
blessed lives —
chosen, elected,
predestined.
Luxury cars sit
quietly in stalls
ready at a moment’s
notice to carry the
blessed speedily to their
appointed tasks.
Golf bags sit near trunks.
The joyous, blessed one
walks across the
insecticided, herbicided,
purified, sterilized
lawn, pulls dune
grass creeping into
the elects’ perfection
and tosses it into the
neighbor’s yard
with just a hint
of righteous
indignation
and maybe a bit of
disdain.
Everything is once
again in its perfect
place witnessing to
the wonder of Election.