the rusted push mower

it was a ten

dollar yard, but i settled on

five

and pushed the rusted

mower

across the street to

the house on the corner,

Mr. Brown's duplex,

not far from

our house.  i brought

my rake

and clippers

for the edges near

the fence. which i did first,

pulling weeds along

the way.

it was July.

a very hot July.

the mower didn't so much

as cut

the grass as push it down.

at the end of the day,

i used his hose

to rinse my head

and shirtless back,

and drank

the warm water slowly

going cold.

he came out at last.

he shook his head 

and went back inside,

letting the screen door slam.

he never paid me.

years later,

when i was older,

taller, maybe seventeen

by then,

he drove by our house,

and he waved

to me. 

he strangely smiled.

feeling badly perhaps

for the yard

so many years ago.