and the mower, this thing you push
without regard to grass or garden.
Your instant god is the noise you make.
Its apostles are the trail you leave.
Up and down, across and back,
only the fence restrains you. But,
then again, your head's one yard,
a million fences, so you're used to such restraints.
But the joy is palpable.
You laugh when the daisy is beheaded.
You cheer the execution of some nameless weed.
Sarah's nervous that you'll lose a toe.
But you and I know,
that you have toes in such numbers.
You cut and cut.
You even cut the cuttings.
You'll mow until the gas runs out.
And then you'll push and push
until your arms tire.
No life to live but a job to do at least.