and as he
goes out
to cut the grass
that never
stops growing
despite how
short, how often
it gets mowed,
no matter how
deep the winter
snow.
he wonders
what tomorrow
will bring.
and he pulls
the rope
to get it going,
the rusted mower,
it's engine
belching out
a small
cloud of blue oil
and steam, and
coughing. churning
the blades for
one more spring,
and once again, he
pushes it down
in long straight
stripes across
the yard. from
east to west, then
north to south.
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