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Lovegrass, crabgrass, and some mossy weed
I can’t identify, in the month’s rain
have filled the cracks in the big brick patio
my father-in-law painstakingly put down

forty years ago, Sundays on his knees
peering at the level to dead-center the bleb
on the front, back, and middle of each brick.
It took him a whole year to do the job

he had to do to put something in the place
of the lush grass his wife contrived to kill
by overwatering, the sprinkler on full blast
Indiscriminately, spitting left and right

at mid-slope to get at the trees on both sides.
Most of the water washed away the grass.
Now I have spent the day pulling up weeds
in the once perfect work of a good man.